Dip Your Feather Wisely
by ChibiStarr
Summary: A collection of prompt-based stories, centered mainly around Prussia/Fritz, with a side of Germancest.
1. Ice

**A/N: Soooo, one of my friends made this challenge. A list of about 400 word prompts, and you have to write a prompt for each word...I can totally do this...I think...(no, be positive!) I intended for this to focus mainly around Prussia/Fritz, but I'll throw in some Germancest or just Prussia or Fritz by themselves if the prompt doesn't work out right or if I just want to :P I'll try to group the prompts together, but this first chapter is a stand alone.**

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><p><strong>01. Ice<strong>

He was not a fearful man by any stretch, but there were rare times when all of his rational thought fled his mind and he was left with a nameless terror that ate away at his sanity like a ravenous beast.

He tried to avoid those times as much as possible.

And yet, he could not dodge his fear forever. It did not appreciate being shoved into the corner of his mind and ignored. He used to think that if he didn't think about it (which was not that often anyway) then it would cease to exist altogether. It was only terrifying because he thought it was so.

How foolish he had been.

There were times when he had seen it coming and he had managed to escape before it could wrap itself around him. But when you have lived for as long as he has, you learn that you cannot escape some things, least of all yourself. It would just wait for you to wear yourself out before it struck.

The first crack of the ice went through his heart like a bullet.

Almost too afraid to move, too afraid to even breathe, he tilted his head to look down at his feet. At the unstable ground beneath them. White cracks blossomed out from underneath his feet like white lightning and crisscrossed the ice like a web crafted by a demented spider. Air bubbles no bigger than his fingernails drifted by those hairlines fissures, showing him just how much of it he would have to breathe if he fell into that dark abyss below. Suddenly his fear was there, sinking its teeth into his chest with all the glee of a child with a piece of taffy. His lungs burned and he let out the breath he had been holding.

As if that simple breath had upset some miniscule and imperceptible balance that the ground had achieved, he felt the ice crack further. The ground under his feet shuddered and he felt the vibrations ripple through his body. His heart thundered and he felt as if he were walking on a tightrope. A trickle of sweat rolled down his face. All of his instincts screamed at him to _move,_to run before the ice broke—and a part of him knew that it would—but his fear had grabbed him by the collar like a dog with its prey and he couldn't even twitch a finger. He could feel the water underneath him; there was a rushing current just inches below him, laced with a deadly cold that would steal his breath and freeze his blood within minutes. The current would carry him away from the opening he would make and would trap him under the ice, leaving him in a wintery tomb.

_Krrrrr, krrrrr._

It sounded like a giant grinding its teeth. The cracks reached out farther, its fingers seeking out the quickest path to destruction. He shivered and felt tears of frustration leak from his eyes before they froze onto his cheeks. "Please…" he whispered, as if the frozen river would absurdly hear him and stop. "Please don't…"

But it did not. His fear had taken over and had turned him into this pathetic, whimpering mess in almost a minute. He could hear it laughing at him. _And you thought you could hide from me forever, didn't you? _Over the voice that was entirely in his head, he could hear a person calling his name. He started to turn his head, and his back twisted with him. His hips moved to accommodate and his feet shifted in place, scraping over the thousands of weak spots that the breaks had created. It immediately gave way with a terrifying, shocking report that sounded like a gunshot and he was falling, drifting almost peacefully down as if he weighed no more than a feather, and yet his fear had completely taken control and he did not even have the time to scream before the water closed over his head.

At first the water was cold, so cold that he thought he would freeze to death right there, but then he was numb as if he had been paralyzed. It was a cold that went right down to his bones and he finally struck out for the surface, knowing that if he did not then he would die. It still felt like he was falling, there was nothing beneath him and he felt the water dragging him along like gravity had just done to pull him under. Instead of the open space he had just created, his hands hit a smooth, solid ceiling of ice. For a second he feared his heart would stop, but when it started working again he screamed, bubbles of air exploding out of his mouth as he wasted all of the precious store that he had in his lungs. He didn't even think about that, he was falling into the abyss that he had so feared and his terror was making him stupid. That didn't matter though, because he knew in that instant that he would die and no one was around to save him.

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><p><strong>AN: Nox Arcana is so awesome. It helped me write this :D**

**This actually has a bigger backstory than it might look. In my headcanon, Prussia has a deep and almost crippling fear of frozen water (NOT regular water, just frozen rivers/lakes) because of what happened to him and his Teutonic Knights during the Battle of the Ice (Google it xD) So he tries to avoid going onto frozen water as much as possible because he's afraid of being trapped under the ice and drowning. This is also why he hates Russia so much. (Note: Yes, Fritz is there. You have to squint.)  
><strong>


	2. Band - World

****A/N: I'm trying to upload these stories in groups of ten, since they're rather short. However if you want to read them faster you can always vist my DA page (my username is still ChibiStarr) because I upload them in threes there.****

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><p><strong>Band<strong>

"I don't think I've ever seen the sky that blue," Frederick muttered to no one in particular.

Gilbert tilted his head a little and looked up. Evening was fast approaching and had turned the sky a pure cobalt blue with one end fading to black and the other a pale gold. "That's odd," he said, "it's supposed to be turning purple around this time." Not that the sky was very important at the moment, but it was a wonderful sight and it would have been a shame to miss it. A gunshot sounded in the distance, grabbing both of their attention back to the town below them. Another shot answered it. "What if they do something?" he asked, turning to his king. "The Austrians were adamant about us not getting that town."

The monarch did not answer immediately, tapping the reins in his hands idly. "It would hurt them as much as it would hurt us," he said after a long silence. His words sounded confident but Prussia noticed a certain glint in his eye that only appeared when he was worried over something. "And yet the Austrians are desperate to strike a blow," he added as an afterthought. "It's a wonder what they will do."

Somewhere, an artillery cannon fired. Gilbert's horse snorted, anxious to be off and running towards the action. He soothed it with a few pats to the neck and flinched when he felt a group of his men being injured somewhere. He flexed his arm as he felt needlepoints of pain prick it. When he straightened up he noticed that Frederick was watching his closely. "It's nothing," he assured with a smile. "Just a skirmish."

Fritz didn't look convinced but he knew better than to pry for answers. "Where are our men?" He asked instead.

Immediately Prussia pointed to a hill that was to their front and right. "You can't see them from here," he explained when Fritz tried to look.

The sky was growing darker, turning the village into a misshaped lump in the distance. The heavens above had turned into alternating bands of black, violet, blue, and pale yellow, all without a hint of stars. A chill wind began to blow, making the horses twitch. "Come," Frederick said, urging his mount to trot. "We will go back and meet up with the others. The town should ours within the hour."

Prussia nodded and suddenly stiffened as he felt a twinge in his gut. He frowned, knowing that it wasn't more of his people in danger. Yet something was wrong. Something had just happened, something bad. Pain twisted in his side, making him grit his teeth. It wasn't the harsh, biting and tearing pain that he was used to when he felt his people being injured or killed, it was an entirely different sort of pain. A slow, deep throb that hurt worse and worse as time went on. It almost felt like—

"Gilbert!"

He jerked his head up when he heard Fritz call his name. Then he realized that he was nearly bent over his horse and his free hand was clutching his side, right over the spot of pain. He sat up and saw worried blue eyes staring at him. He couldn't downplay this one, not with the looking he was getting. "Something's burning," he said.

Frederick frowned. Whatever he had expected to hear, it was not that. "What—" he said before the horses suddenly whinnied and stamped their hooves in fright. They both shared a look before they realized what had scared the horses. The stench of smoke was heavy in the air. Fritz grabbed the reins to calm his horse and looked back to the town. "Good god," he whispered as he saw the bright flames crawling out of the rooftops, lighting the place up for miles.

"Austrians," Gilbert muttered as if it were the worst insult he could think of. That didn't stop the fire that roared out of the buildings and painted a glowing band of orange across the striped sky.

**Smile**

Prussia frowned at the dish in front of him like a scientist examining a new and interesting species. After a few moments of speculation, he turned to Fritz. "And what the hell are these?" he demanded, pointing at the pale lumps sitting on the dish in front of him.

Fritz chuckled and looked far too amused for Prussia's liking. "Those are potatoes," he said calmly, a small smile on his face. He rested his cheek on one hand and he had his legs crossed over one another. Prussia had seen that pose before and he knew it could either be very good or very bad.

He frowned a little deeper. "And why are you shoving them in my face?" He asked, sparing them another angry look as if they were to take the blame for his current irritation. Really, why had his king just walked in carrying a plateful of buttered potatoes? Why had he even bothered to peel the lumpy brown things? It made no sense.

"Oh come now," Frederick said, tapping his free fingers against his knee. "I hardly _shoved _them at you. You're just complaining because you have no idea what's going on."

"Then please educate me," Prussia replied, crossing his arms testily.

There was a rustle of fabric as Frederick uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "I want you to try some," he said, quiet and serious.

Prussia raised an eyebrow. "What," he deadpanned, hoping that he had somehow misheard his Boss.

"Exactly what I said. Try a bite," Frederick said, tapping the fork that sat next to the plate.

"Are you serious?" Gilbert asked, his eyes growing huge in his shock. "Why would you want me to eat potatoes? They are disgusting!"

"How would you know?" Fritz asked, unperturbed. "You have never tried them."

"They were pulled up out of the ground! That's all I need to know!"

"Lots of things are pulled out of the ground and those are edible. Onions, carrots, beets—"

"Those at least look edible!" Gilbert protested, shoving the plate away from him like an unruly child. "Potatoes look like dirt. Hell they might as well _be _dirt for all you know."

Frederick sighed and did not even try to make sense out of that argument. "Then why would I tell you these are potatoes?" He asked gently.

Gilbert shrugged, obviously running into a roadblock with that one. "As a joke," he offered.

Fritz shook his head, his smile still in place. "What a silly reason," he said, "I wouldn't try to deceive you like that. Now, eat."

"No."

He should have known this wouldn't be easy. "They are perfectly edible. The Spanish eat them all the time."

"Spain is fucking weird anyway," Prussia shot back, tapping his fingers on the tabletop.

This caused him to raise an eyebrow. "I thought he was your friend?" he said curiously. They had certainly acted that way when they met.

"He is, but that doesn't mean he isn't weird." Prussia said and glared again at the potatoes. "You know that not even the dogs will eat them? And they grow those nasty tubers and shit."

"You can cut the tubers off," Fritz replied patiently. "And potatoes are not a part of a dog's diet anyway. Obviously the common folk can eat a large variety of things and still be fine. They're a hearty people." He could tell his argument was having no effect, so he decided to bring out the heavy artillery. Before Prussia could comprehend what he was doing he grabbed the fork, speared a piece of potato, and popped it into his mouth. The reaction was not what he expected.

"_Don't eat that!" _Prussia shrieked, leaping to his feet so quickly that his chair flew back. For a single moment Frederick thought that Gilbert would knock the fork out of his hand but the albino seemed rooted to the floor, unable to move in his shock.

He prayed that the servants wouldn't rush in, fearing him to be poisoned. That would be too much unnecessary drama. "See, perfectly safe," he said once his mouth was empty.

Gilbert had turned white, whiter than Frederick had ever seen him before, which was actually quite worrying. He might have collapsed in his chair if it hadn't been halfway across the room. Fritz quickly stood up and pushed Prussia into his seat. "Sit down, you look like you're about to faint."

Suddenly the nation exploded in a rapid flurry of German that was way too fast for Frederick to make sense of and ran a hand through his hair. The color was coming back to his face, turning them a bright pink. "I swear if you pull anything like that again I will hit you," he said finally, glaring at him for real this time.

"Forgive my hastiness," Frederick replied sincerely and slid the plate closer. "I still beseech you to try them." A wry smile twisted the corner of his mouth. "I haven't keeled over yet, so I am quite fine." He cut another piece with his fork and offered it to Gilbert.

"Poison doesn't work that fast," Prussia muttered but obediently relieved him of the utensil. It finally seemed to have registered that Fritz was simply not going to leave him alone until he tried it. He sighed and quickly ate, deciding to just get it over with.

It did not taste like it had just been pulled out of the ground, much to his surprise. Actually it didn't taste half bad. "It's a little bland," he said, his voice amazed.

Fritz chuckled. "You can cook them in different ways and add many things to them," he said, knowing that he had won. He had a huge smile on his face and for once Prussia wasn't ruffled by it.

A peep came from above and suddenly Gilbird was fluttering out of his usual perch in Gilbert's hair to see what all the fuss was about. Prussia tapped his lips in thought and cut off a tiny piece of potato and held it out to his bird. The chick studied it for a moment and pecked it out of his hand, shaking its head as it ate. "If you add a few things to this," Prussia said, "just a few odds and ends, it could be quite delicious.

**Crying**

Frederick could count on one hand the number of times he had seen his dear nation cry. The immortal man had always viewed it as something "unawesome" and repressed his tears whenever he felt their presence. He had emerged stone-faced through bullets, cannon fire, stab wounds, broken bones, and poison. But that was all his own pain. The agony of others could cause the mask to slip and the hidden cries to come forth.

Kolin was a disaster, no one needed to tell that to the King. Worse was that it was a disaster wrought entirely by him. In the ever-perfect clarity of hindsight he saw how foolish it had been to split his troops. Of course those smaller units were easy targets, and they had all paid the price for not noticing it sooner. So many of his Prussians had been slaughtered, and he felt the weight of it on his shoulders. But not in the same way Prussia had felt his own people dying.

The first sob tore at his heart.

Frederick had found him hidden behind a pile of crates in an alley. Prussia had disappeared right after the battle, causing worry to break out between the king and his staff and they had searched the town and enlisted troops to search the surrounding hills as well. Now, standing at the mouth of the alley and hearing the choked sounds coming from it, he wondered if it was just better to let Prussia grieve without a witness. He was debating on whether or not to go when a pitiful moan reached his ears. He was striding down the filthy alley before the echoes of it even faded.

Prussia was sitting against the wall, curled up so his feet wouldn't stick out from behind the crates. One arm was wrapped around his middle and the other was thrown across his eyes as if to hide the sight of his tears from the world. He moved a little when he heard footsteps and then curled even tighter around himself when he realized who it was. His face was wet.

Frederick knelt down and reached out to wipe the tears away, and then drew his hand back abruptly as if afraid to touch him. He had no idea what to say. Should he say that he was sorry? Apologies wouldn't bring back the dead, nor would they change what had happened. He had screwed up and the both of them knew it. Tentatively, he laid his hand on a knee. When Prussia didn't flinch away he took that as a somewhat good sign. "Can you walk?" he asked gently. His voice was low, nearly devoid of emotion.

He saw a nod. "Give me a moment," Gilbert replied shakily. His throat bobbed as he swallowed the rest of his cries. "I'll be up in no time." The false cheer fell flat and he couldn't even manage a fake smile. He uncovered his eyes and the look on his face was so filled with pain and sadness that Frederick wanted to hold him close, like a child.

"You don't have to strain yourself," Fritz said quickly. He saw Gilbert shaking as he tried to push himself to his feet.

The pale man shook his head. "We have to get out of here," he growled. "Damn Specs'll be all over this place soon. They're already in the town." He gave a sudden gasp of pain and would have fallen to the ground if Frederick had not caught him. He was nearly a dead weight but the monarch could feel his muscles spasm as another wave of pain wracked his body. Now that he was standing, Frederick could clearly see the blood that covered his entire torso.

Prussia noticed the stare and glanced away. "I can feel their pain," he said quietly, feeling the need to explain himself even though he had already told his king multiple times. "When they die, I can feel it. Their pain. . . it becomes my own." He fought down another sob and pressed his arm closer to his stomach; so far it had staunched the blood flow and had kept him from bleeding to death.

Of course Frederick had already seen it all. His king had been there when he started to scream as wounds split open his body apart entirely on their own accord. Fritz had actually been the one who ordered him to be carried off the battlefield when he couldn't rise to his feet. Thankfully, Frederick remained his usual tact self and did not say anything. He let Gilbert lean on him, unmindful of the blood getting on his clothes, and helped him walk. "I'm sorry," the monarch whispered quietly.

Gilbert shook his head again. "It's not your fault," he gasped. "Everyone makes mistakes."

Well, Frederick certainly wished that he had someone to blame.

**Yogurt**

Frederick examined the dish in front of him curiously. "And what might this be?" he asked, turning to Gilbert, who had a bowl of his own and was spooning the stuff into his mouth. Whatever it was, it looked a lot like very thick cream.

Prussia paused to swallow and set his spoon into the bowl. "Something Turkey once showed me," he said, smirking a little. "He called it 'yogurt' or something to that effect. Pronounced it all weird. Regardless, it is quite good."

"And what is it made from?" Frederick asked, picking up his spoon.

"Fermented milk."

The spoon went back down. "What?" Fritz said, shooting his country a look.

"Fermented milk," Prussia repeated, taking another bite. "Trust me, it's not what you think."

"If it is made from fermented milk then that is all I need to know," Frit replied. He wanted to slide the dish away but refrained from doing so.

"That is not true," Gilbert said, placing his empty bowl on the table. "Do you know that cheese is also made from fermented milk? Technically it's a type of mold." He interlocked his fingers, knowing that his king was _not _aware of that. It gave him a certain mischievous pleasure to have knowledge of something over Fritz, and he knew how much he liked to learn.

Frederick paused, mulling the words over. Prussia knew that he would have loved to deny it, but that would imply that he knew how it was really made. "Is it now?" he said, trying to sound indifferent.

Prussia nodded. "Honest to gods," he said, "saw it myself. Now," he picked up the untouched spoon, "Not all bad milk is really bad. Try it." When Frederick did not reply he scoffed. "Oh come on, you made me try those potatoes."

Ah, that explained a lot. "And this will stave off famine?" Fritz asked, smiling a little.

Gilbert shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. That's not the point. I would like it if you tried some. Humor me." He held the spoonful of yogurt in one hand, waving it gently. "Please?"

He had to say those words, didn't he? Frederick sighed and took the spoon from him. "Fine," he said before tasting it. Much to his surprise, it was slightly sweet instead of the sourness he had been expecting.

Prussia smiled brilliantly when he saw Frederick's face change. "I told you," he said, although he sounded more happy than gloating.

"I will admit to it differing from my expectations," Frederick agreed, shooting his country a knowing look, which was returned. "It seems a bit bland, however." Those who dined with the king knew of his preference to spiced foods.

A chuckle answered him. "I told Turkey the same thing. He said that his people put fruits and other sweets into it for flavor. I added some honey to this mixture." He dipped a finger into the bowl and licked it.

"Your manners are atrocious," Frederick muttered, pointedly _not_ looking at Gilbert sucking on his fingers.

"It's just the two of us," Prussia said, the smile evident in his voice. "We don't have to impress anyone." He set his elbow on his knee and propped his chin up on his fist. "So, do you like it?"

The king paused, and then smiled. "If you add a few things to this, just a few odds and ends—" Prussia started to laugh "—it could be quite delicious."

**Truth**

Warm sunlight filtered in through the large windows, basking the room in a golden glow. Notes from the flute fluttered in the air, filling the empty space with the trills of a sonata. The flautist and his one man audience basked in the warm light, soaking up the heat. One man sat in an armchair; he was so pale that his skin seemed to have a glow of its own. The other was turned slightly away, more focused on his music stand than anything else.

Prussia sank deeper into his chair, enjoying the peace of the study. He didn't mind the constant music, but he preferred watching his king play more. The way his fingers would glide over the keys and the sway of his body were absolutely entrancing and Prussia felt a wicked joy at having his King all to himself. Fritz was _his,_ and this little bit of alone time was proof of it. But why was Frederick his? It was times like these that made him philosophical and question things like that. Frederick surrounded himself with musicians, philosophers, and intellectuals. While he had his dear Fritz to read and educate him and actually bring philosophy into his field of interests (Wilhelmine still could not believe it) he could not compete with brilliant minds suck as Pierre de Maupertuis or Marquis Jean d'Argens or, heaven forbid, _Voltaire._ He swallowed and tried to dispel the poet from his thoughts. Just the man's name could sour his mood. He would actually be happy in the company of those such as Winterfeldt and Stille, but a certain Frenchman was not.

His king obviously enjoyed the presence of Voltaire more than any of his other guests, and why shouldn't he? The man was smart, witty, poetic, appreciative of the arts, and a radical thinker. Gilbert had heard quite a lot about the man from Francis and while his friend spoke admirably of him Gilbert knew that he irritated France to no end. After all, there was a reason why Voltaire no longer resided in his home country. But compared to him, Prussia was a rude, warmongering soldier who could not appreciate the finer arts like an educated man. It. . .it would have hurt if Prussia had been unawesome enough to actually allow something like emotions to actually harm him. Nope, didn't feel a single thing.

He noticed that he was tapping his fingers against the armrest and quickly stopped. A moment later he also noticed that something strange had happened to the room. Rather belatedly he realized that the music had stopped. He looked up and noticed that Fritz was watching him. "Why do you seem so morose?" the king asked when he had Prussia's attention. "I'm sure my playing wasn't that bad."

He could not even force himself to smile at Frederick's joke. It might not be effective anyway, since Frederick had always been able to read him like a book. It was a little annoying sometimes. "It is nothing," he said, his voice unnaturally quiet. "Your playing was as excellent as usual. My mind just likes to wander in times like this." It wasn't a lie, just not the entire truth.

Those clear blue eyes narrowed, bright with thought. Now Fritz knew that something was bothering his nation. Bothering him terribly, if the observations of the past minute had been any indication. Had it really taken Prussia a full minute to realize that he had been staring at him? Carefully, he set the flute on his desk and made his way over to Prussia until the nation had to look up. "What is troubling you?" he asked gently.

"It is nothing you should concern yourself with," Gilbert lied smoothly, avoiding his eye.

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?" Fritz replied kindly. "Come on, out with it. The truth now." He reached out and gently ran his fingers through silver locks of hair, a comforting gesture.

Prussia did not answer him immediately. He stared off at the all, trying to ignore him. The combination of his own misery and Fritz's warm presence cracked his shell though. "Why do you love me?" he asked abruptly. "I want the truth as well."

The fingers stopped. Prussia could _feel _the surprise radiating from his king. "May I ask what prompted this thought?" he said.

"You may," Prussia replied, "but that does not mean that I will answer you."

He heard a sigh. "Very well," Fritz said. "You want to entire truth?" Prussia nodded under his hand. "Well, if I were not being truthful then I would say that I loved you since I was a child. That I always viewed you as a protector or guardian that I could run to in order to escape my father. If I were not being truthful then I would say that that you allowed me to be myself and loved me for it, and I loved you in return."

Prussia felt his heart drop. Those seemed to be good reasons for love, but they were not the truth. What was then?

Frederick went on, carefully picking out his words. "I could say that I love your character. You are so different from my friends and guests, and I enjoy that difference and find that we compliment each other well. You hardly let anything bring your mood down and the confidence I see in you inspires me. Witty—and a bit devilish I might add—you know out of all people how to take a joke. Voltaire is far too sensitive."

A ghost of a smile threatened to make itself known when he heard the jibe at Voltaire. But he knew it wasn't solely to please him. While Frederick was startlingly astute at times, he was incredibly dense when it came to Prussia's jealously of his favorite poet. "So what would be the truth?" he asked quietly, his stomach turning.

Frederick bent down until he was looking directly at Gilbert. His eyes were as blue as a warm summer sky. "Truthfully, I would say that I love you for all of those reasons and so much more. They are all excuses to love someone, and I don't need and excuse to love you. I love you because you are simply yourself." He smiled and leaned forward, placing a quick kiss to his lips. "Now, smile for me. It brightens the room."

**Feminine**

"What the hell kind of statement is that?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Damn right you should beg it! What's this 'more feminine' bullshit you have right here?"

"You know that's a certain breach of trust to go through someone's papers."

"It's lying out as plain as day, anyone could have read it! Now stop avoiding the question."

"Well, aren't you?"

"Aren't I what?"

"The more feminine of the two of us."

"W-WHAT? How am _I _the more feminine one? Look at yourself!"

"What do you mean?"

"Alright, long hair. _Curly _long hair to make it worse. Ah, don't tell me about how it's the French fashion, France may as well be a woman with how he dresses. The flute playing: womanly."

"All educated men—"

"Excuses, excuses. The dress coat, _the dress coat._ The military uniform looks great on you, but then you change into this _lacy _shit. You have a _bow _in your hair for Christ's sake!"

"And you are throwing a bit of a fit right now. That is a favorite pastime of the womenfolk, is it not?"

"That's—That's—"

"Ah, ah, excuses."

"I am not making excuses. And even _if _that is womanly your traits far outweigh mine."

"But men everywhere are required to wear their hair long, correct?"

"No."

"Just because you are an exception to this rule does not mean that everyone else is."

"So? I'm still a man."

"Yes, but if you base traits of a 'manly' person from your own characteristics then the scores are quite biased."

"And this isn't biased right here?"

"I just call out the facts as I see them."

"Where's your proof?"

"Well right now you're arguing. I'm sure you know how well women love to argue."

"I'm _debating._"

"Hahaha, alright, you win that one."

"I'm waiting."

"You tend to be insecure about little things—"

"I am n—"

"And when they are brought up you get upset. You immediately deny it as if the very _thought _ruffles you."

"But when you make accusations like that—"

"I am not accusing you of anything. You are making this out to be bigger than it actually is. _Another _habit of women I might add."

"Men do that too! Since when were you an expert on women?"

"I am not, and neither are you if you mistook your best friend as a boy for decades."

". . . Where the hell did you learn that?"

"It doesn't matter where Iearned it. Is it true, by the way? I cannot trust my source."

"I—well, um. . ."

"No immediate denial, which is usual, so I will take that as yes."

"Now wait a moment!"

"You will have to explain that to me later."

"No I do not!"

"Moving onto my final point, is it not usual for the woman of a relationship to bottom under her husband?"

". . ."

"Why, my dear, you are quite red. You would not even need to put rogue on your cheeks to redden them, just a simple blush would—

"SHUT UP!"

**Alcohol**

Ludwig stumbled down the stairs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with a tiny hand as he righted himself on the bottom step. Gilbert was cooking; he could smell hot butter and the popping of food sizzling on a pan. The kitchen was just in front of him and he peeked around the wide doorway to get a better view. Gilbert's back was facing him, the bright red cape a startling splash of color in the predawn light. Steam curled up from the top of the pan he was watching, its thin wisps drifting up and disappearing out of the open window.

He was certain that he made no noise, and the sizzling was much too loud for a person to hear much of anything, and yet Gilbert still turned around the moment he entered. "_Guten Morgen," _the older country said, smiling a little at his brother's messed up hair. So cute.

"_Guten Morgen_," Ludwig mumbled sleepily, going over to hug his brother. He was so short that he only came up to his hip, but Gilbert didn't seem to mind. He patted the blond's head before lifting up the pan.

"_Bist du hungrig?_" He asked, transferring eggs to a plate with a spatula.

"_Ein wenig,_" he replied. He heard Gilbert laugh and ruffle his hair again before heading to the table with his plate.

"Come eat something," the albino said, abruptly switching to English. "It might arouse your appetite." The plate clinked as he set it down.

"_Ja—_yes, brother," he replied, almost stumbling over his words. Gilbert had recently been teaching him English and had firmly told him that if he ever wanted to become fluent then he had better start speaking it on a daily basis. He climbed into his chair, trying to mentally rearrange his vocabulary. Why did it have to be so early? They could at least practice when his brain wasn't so fuzzy.

Prussia strided over to him, a mug in each hand. "Here," he said, placing one of the mugs in front of him. Ludwig did not catch his smirk.

"Thank you," he mumbled and started to eat. People often made the misconception that Gilbert could not cook when actually he was very good at it, he just made a mess.

Prussia did not have a plate, since he had already eaten. He was always the first to rise and always lingered behind to spend time with his adorable little brother. Occasionally he made a remark and sipped his own drink, but for the most part he stayed silent and prodded Gilbird across the table.

It was in the middle of one of these silences that Ludwig reached for his drink. Instead of the milk that he expected he tasted bitterness and foam and coughed as bubbles nearly choked him. He felt Gilbert give his back a good slap as he erupted into a fit of coughing. "_Bruder! Was ist das?" _he gasped when he could get a breath without choking.

"Beer," Gilbert replied calmly. He grinned over the rim of his own drink.

"_W-Was?_" Ludwig said, his eyes widening. Gilbert gave him a look and he went on, "You switched my drink with some of your nasty beer?"

Prussia scoffed and waved his hand. "It is not nasty, you are just complaining. You'll like it eventually."

"Gilbert, I almost choked," Ludwig whined. His throat still hurt from the abuse it had just taken.

"That's because you were drinking it too fast," Gilbert replied. Then he smirked widely. "You should have seen the way you went at it. Chugged it just like a natural."

Ludwig felt his face heat up. Over his brother's laughter he saw his mug sitting on the table, innocent and peaceful. He nibbled on his lower lip and reached for it again. After all, it _had _tasted pretty good.

**Tears**

The sound of tears interrupted his walk and made him pause in his tracks. There was no one else in the hall except for him, and only a single voice sobbed to itself in one of the rooms. It did not take a genius to realize who it was. He sighed and quietly made his way to the slightly ajar door. He did not want to frighten the room's occupant, so he very gently pushed the door open and slipped in, closing the door behind him softly. No one else had to see this.

The Crown Prince was curled on his side, his face hidden in the crook of his arm in an attempt to stifle the noise that he was making. The poor thing, it was not uncommon to see him in a less-than happy mood these days. He went over to the bed and the cries paused when they heard his footsteps. The mattress dipped as he sat on it, which was rather amazing since it was the hardest and most lumpy mattress he ever had the misfortune of sitting on. Gently, he laid a hand on the prince's shoulder and rubbed it comfortingly. He would have made his usual "crying is unawesome" comment, but he knew that Frederick was heartily sick of hearing it.

Fritz's head turned a little at his touch, revealing a face reddened and soaked by more tears. Even in the dim light his eyes sparkled brilliantly with more tears, each as beautiful and heartbreaking as a cracked diamond. He turned a little more and then grabbed two fistfuls of Gilbert shirt and pulled himself up into a sitting position. Gilbert said nothing as the boy buried his face into his shirt as if trying to hide from an assassin. The crying started up again in the ruffles of his collar. The country gently shushed his prince and stroked the back of his neck soothingly, muttering comfortingly words all the while. He was the only one Fritz trusted enough to cry in front of, with the exception of Wilhelmine. Unfortunately the older princess was downstairs and the King always grew suspicious when both of the children were seen together.

Prussia didn't mind that his shirt and jacket were getting wet. He had other ones anyway. A soft "Piyo" came from above and suddenly Gilbird fluttered down from his head and landed on the prince's shoulder, peeping quietly. Frederick showed no indication that he knew the bird was there. After a handful of minutes, he sniffed and finally spoke. "I hate this place."

That was nothing new. Everyone knew that the prince openly scorned Wusterhausen and everything about it, especially the daily hunts. To find him crying over it was unusual, however. There had to be more to the story.

He offered a smile, although Frederick could not see it. "Kesese, the 'castle in the desert' as your sister so nicely puts it," he said, trying not to laugh. Wilhelmine's sarcasm could be hilarious at times. For a moment he was silent, then admitted, "I don't like it either. I've lived in poorer places than this, but never with such disagreeable company." Even the Tabagies were becoming unbearable. Not that they were the most wonderful activity anyway, but Gilbert had recently been feigning pain and aches from internal affairs in order to escape them. That was the upside of being a country, you could fake a sudden pain attack or sickness and no one would be suspicious.

Frederick wiped his eyes, but he still refused to look up at Prussia. "The king hates me," he murmured. He hardly said "father" nowadays. It was as if he couldn't bear to admit that the two of them were related.

The words twisted Gilbert's heart. He had heard that a number of times as well. The worst part was that he could not completely deny the accusation not when he had heard a few of Frederick William's choice remarks with his own ears. "I wouldn't say hate," he replied uneasily. "You certainly don't like each other, but hate is quite a powerful term."

"Prussia, please spare me your ambiguous remarks regarding the relationship between me and my father," Frederick said coldly. For a moment he sounded as aloof and distant as a hermit living on a mountaintop, but then he shuddered and choked back another sob. "Forgive me, I should not have taken my frustrations out on you." He wiped his face again, although it was clearly ineffective against the waterfall of tears. "The king has all but clearly written out the words and shoved them in my face." He turned his head to look at something behind him, and Prussia noticed a half-crumpled sheet of paper with the king's writing on it.

He nearly reached for it, then remembered his manners. "May I?" he inquired gently. Fritz mumbled something that could have been anything, but he did not shake his head or show any kind of negative reaction. Gilbert took the letter and smoothed it out so he could read it. His blood chilled as he read the first few lines. It just got worse from there. "Oh, Fritz," he murmured sadly and stroked the boy's hair. The sniffling started up again. "Here," he said and drew his kerchief out of his sleeve. "Wipe your face. You don't want to look all red and puffy for dinner, do you?" Frederick shook his head and accepted the kerchief with a murmur of thanks. Gilbert picked up the letter again and read on as Fritz quietly blew his nose.

_"He has a willful and wicked disposition; he does not love his father. A son who loves his father does the will of that father, not only in his presence, but also when he is not there to see. He knows perfectly well that I cannot endure an effeminate boy, who is without a single manly inclination, who cannot ride, nor shoot, and who, into the bargain, is dirty in his person, never has his hair cut, and curls it like an idiot. A fine gentleman, withal, haughty, never speaking to anyone except one or two people, not affable, and not popular. He does my will in nothing except under compulsion. He does nothing from filial love. He has no pleasure but to follow his own head. That is my answer."_

He sighed sadly. Frederick William certainly knew how to make his words hurt. He didn't even refer to his son by his name, just the third person. He swallowed and set down the letter. "Come here," he said, drawing the young prince into a gentle embrace. "I know it hurts," he whispered in his ear. "But after a while it will stop hurting. Cry a little now, but don't let him see how much he hurts you." Frederick shook his head again and simply leaned against him, sniffing and occasionally wiping his eyes.

**World**

"Oh, this is going to be hectic," Prussia murmured, fidgeting with the cuffs of his coat for the tenth time. He did not look nervous or frightened by what lay ahead. He was anxious and almost pacing, like he always did before a battle. However this battle would fought with words and negotiations instead of guns and cannons. The doors were closed, but they would not be for long.

Frederick watched him closely. "How hectic?" he asked, tapping his fingers against his cane. He had no desire to restart the war within the confines of one room.

Prussia answered him with an ironic, bitter laugh. "Very hectic," he said, smiling a self-depreciating smile. "Honestly, if you guys weren't here then we would just try to kill each other the moment we stepped in."

Silence. "You're quite certain of that?" Frederick asked, sounding a bit uneasy. He had a reason to be, since it was only him and his nation going into the meeting room.

"Absolutely," Prussia replied, trying his hardest not to pace. "But trust me, we don't pick fights in front of our rulers. At least we try not to." He offered a forced smile, but it did no good.

Fritz fought down a sigh. This was going to be chaotic. He wished that Winterfeldt or Schwerin or even Keith were here with him, any of them were great morale boosters. But, reminded himself bitterly, they were all dead. And more would die if they did not get this blasted treaty signed and have the war dealt with. Prussia finally threw himself into a chair next to him, crossing his legs irritably. The marks of war were still clearly on him. He looked thinner and paler, his eyes no longer shone with that bright lust for life and seemed dull and glazed. A cough had settled over him, brought on by a sudden sickness ("We're almost bankrupt, that's why," Prussia told him when he learned of it) and made him seem even weaker. At least there was no more blood on his clothes, but whenever he moved it was stiff from all the bandages that were wrapped tightly around him. Even though he was no longer pacing, his fingers tapped an irritating rhythm onto the armrest of the chair. Fritz reached out and restrained them. Prussia looked up and was met with just a raised eyebrow.

Suddenly the double doors opened and Fritz jerked his hand back as if he had just stuck it into a fire. "Yes?" He asked the servant who had just entered.

"The room is ready, Your Majesty," he said formally. "The, ah, _countries—_" he seemed to have a hard time getting the word out "—are coming in just now."

Prussia leaped up, cracking his fingers. "Alright, let's do this," he said with a grin. It was painfully obvious that he was still apprehensive over the entire ordeal, but Frederick did not have any time to reflect on it.

The room that they were ushered into consisted of only one round table, with huge windows that allowed the bright sunlight to stream in. As they entered, doors on the other side of the room opened and more people poured in. Immediately Austria and Maria Theresa stepped in, and the queen's eyes immediately met his. If she had a knife or any weapon on her then he was certain that she would have used it on him. He offered her a sharp smile in return and he had the gratification to see her eyes narrow further. Hungary came trailing in behind, followed by Saxony and his elector, France (who refused to meet Prussia's eye) and his king, and then by Russia and his new empress.

Russia's smile looked like it had been carved onto his face with a knife. "_Prussiyah," _he purred in that distinctly unpleasant tone that made Frederick bristle. "You are certainly looking better than the last time we met."

Of course the last time they had met face to face was at Burkersdorf, but it was obvious that he was referring to the last time they met on opposing sides of a battle: the siege of Kolberg. That alone was enough to make Fritz hate him.

"A hell of a lot better than you were," Prussia replied contemptuously. That was the truth, since they had beaten the Russians back three times before the enemy had finally decided to quit. His tone was all just a façade to hide how weak he really was. It was actually hard to tell who was the strongest nation present; the war had not been kind to anyone.

Russia's smile widened, and Frederick saw something dark flicker behind that happy expression. The tension in the room suddenly popped like a balloon when four other figures entered: Britain and Hanover with their rulers. "Pardon our lateness," Britain said formally, coming to stand beside Prussia. "We hope we didn't keep you waiting." There was a bit of poison to his words, and his gaze landed on each of his opponents as if daring them to comment. Fritz saw King George shake his head in a long-suffering fashion. Britain has been the only true victor in the war, gaining control of France's oversea colonies, and it showed. He looked powerful and regal, despite the marks of sickness on him as well, and it was obvious who the strongest of the nations was.

Austria forced a smile. "Not at all, England," he said quietly. His voice sounded raw from coughing. "We were just about to start." Always the gentleman, he pulled out a seat for his queen before sitting down himself. The rest followed.

Frederick had once viewed sitting as a pose to relax in, good for lounging. He saw nothing relaxed or calm about any of the nations. They all looked like wild animals, crouched and ready to pounce. He saw George shift his feet uneasily, evidently not used to seeing his nation show such restrained ferocity. Frederick knew that he was the only one who was completely at ease, he had after all fought beside his nation in many battle and knew firsthand how dangerous he could be. Actually this was quite tame for Prussia. He leveled his gaze at Maria Theresa. She returned it, which was more than what some men could do. "We want Silesia," he said without preamble. "All of it."

"No," the queen immediately said.

There were a few sighs around the table, although it was impossible to tell who the sounds were coming from. _Not this song and dance again, _someone—Hanover?—muttered almost inaudibly. Frederick ignored it. "Maria Theresa, be reasonable," he said patiently, "that is all I ask for."

"All?" Catherine replied, raising an eyebrow in question.

What was she playing at? "Yes, all," Frederick said.

"Run off with my richest province?" Austria replied indignantly, "Absolutely not."

"Oh shutup, you were doing just fine without it," Prussia snapped. He winced as Frederick kicked him under the table.

"Whether or not we were doing fine is irrelevant," Maria Theresa said, "Silesia was originally mine."

"It belongs to me by inheritance," Frederick countered calmly.

"A forgery if there ever was one!" Maria Theresa snapped.

Saxony raised his hand. "Hey, before you two start going back and forth, what about me?"

Heads turned to him. "We don't want your lands," Prussia replied, "just Silesia. A generous offer if there ever was one." he threw Maria Theresa a glare as he said this.

Russia leaned forward, causing everyone to look at him. "And Poland?" he asked, somehow making the words a threat.

Before Fritz could reply Gilbert scoffed. "Feliks can go fall into a dry well." He winced as Frederick kicked him again.

The monarch turned to the czarina. "We do not want Poland," he said. "It is of no interest to us."

Catherine nodded. "Very well," she said, "that is all we wanted to know."

Austria sighed to himself. "Unreliable as ever, Russia," he muttered.

The arctic nation was unperturbed. "Whatever happens to your Silesia is of no concern to me. I would not take part in something that does not concern me."

Well, that got rid of one of Maria Theresa's allies. Britain smiled smugly. He looked so damn conceited that even Prussia looked humble in comparison. "Austria, considering all of the land I got from France and Spain you should feel honored that Prussia isn't asking for more." If he had not been sitting down then Prussia would have bet money that he would have started to dance on the spot.

The island nation's jibe had its effect. France—already strained from the war and conversations of dividing up land— leaped to his feet while shouting obscenities in French and just might have leaped over the table to throttle his long-time enemy if Austria and Louis had not grabbed him and yanked him back into his seat. Arthur didn't even manage to rise because the only thing George had to do was give him a stern look before he shrank back into his seat like a guilty child. Nearby, Hanover rolled his eyes. "Oh grow _up, _you two," he snapped. "You're worse than Prussia and Austria."

His king's remonstration was unheard over the yells of the protest from both of the aforementioned countries. A tug on Prussia's sleeve calmed him down and he turned away, muttering under his breath in German. Austria still glared daggers, but he did not say a word with his leader—not to mention a lady—right next to him. Fritz sighed and felt a headache coming on. He knew this wasn't going to be easy.

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><p><strong>Yaaay notes! (Sheesh, they're almost as long as the stories themselves XDD)<strong>

****Yogurt:** The Turks didn't really "invent" yogurt per se, but it was widely popular. Yogurt and honey was once described as "food of the gods" or something to that effect. And considering how a lot of Europe fought the Ottoman Empire at one point in time, I'm sure Prussia and Turkey have met. The pronounciation is a reference to it being called 'yoghurt' in lots of other countries.  
>Why yes, this is a deliberate parallel of "Smile." Or rather it's the other way around because I actually wrote this story first Yogurt really is fermented milk and some types of cheese really are mold. After all, how do you think they got blue cheese to turn blue?<br>**  
>Truth:<strong> Oh dear, the sap. The _sap_. Don't touch it, your hand might stick XD I'm a bit of a cheesy romantic myself so I had to make something absolutely sweet and fluffy XD Hope it didn't rot your teeth out. Have to watch for that now.  
>Pierre Louis Maupertuis was a famous French scientist, mathematician, and philosopher. He became the first president of the Berlin Academy of Science and was of course invited to Sanssouci by Frederick. Apparently Voltaire didn't like him too much. Wrote a few bad things about him which pissed off Fritz and got him kicked out of Prussia XDDD<br>Marquis Jean d'Argens was also French, and philosoper and writer. He was also invited to Sanssouci by the king and spent a large part of his life there. Apparently the Church hated him because a lot of his books were deemed heresy by the Inquisition. I thought this was hilarious XDD Poor France has a ton of rebellious people.  
>Winterfeldt is Hans Karl von Winterfeldt, one of Frederick's generals and a very close friend. He was on Fritz's confidential staff to represent the king's views to his generals, which required a whole bunch of tact. He also won tons of batles and stuff which promoted him to major general. He actually did quite a lot of things for Fritz, but I can't list every single one here XD Stille is another general, although I cannot for the life of me remember his full name ;-; Voltaire didn't like afternoon lunches at the palace and tended to skip them because he didn't like the "military air" about them.<br>**  
>Feminine:<strong> Oh, 1700s stereotypes ahoy! XD I'm kinda sorry if I caused any offence, but I was grinning myself. Women still do these things y'know XD  
>I laughed my head off while writing this. I enjoyed this so much XDD Being just dialogue, it was hard not to add descriptions but I wrote it pretty fast. It went like this: I went into my headcanon and asked Fritz and Prussia to please sit down. Once they did, I kindly asked them who was the more feminine one in the relationship. Fritz immediately pointed his finger at Prussia and this argument ensued.<strong>

****Alcohol**: Just a fluffy German brothers moment ^^ Please tell me if I totally screwed up the German bits, cause I need to know what I need to fix.  
>I totally think that Gilbert would do this XD I once heard from somewhere that Germans regard beer as a health drink and used to give it to their children to help them grow nice and healthy (not quite sure if this is true, but I would not be surprised if it was). I also based this off of an experience that I had as a child. Of course I knew what I was drinking so I didn't try to inhale the beer, but my parents had to take it away from me when I tried to get another mouthful XD<br>**  
>Tears:<strong> Oh poor Fritz ;-; I was reading in my book and for a while it started to talk about Wusterhausen. When Frederick wrote his father a very formal letter listing his complaints and accusing the King of hating him, this was Frederick William's answer, quoted straight from my book. My heart cracked a little when I read that and I really did feel sorry for the prince.  
><strong><br>World:** Ehehe, this prompt really fought me here x_x This is one of my "don't take this thing seriously or try to find any historical accuracies because there are none" stories XD Of course I made it somewhat accurate, Spain and Sweden aren't in here because they had already signed separate peace treaties and therefore did not need to show up. It's kinda the "world" in a sense of so many countries there, but I basically threw all of these characters into a room and let them talk. It didn't last two minutes.  
><strong>


	3. Kingdom

**A/N: Just a single story, because I think this has a better impact as a stand-alone. (Not mention it's really long XD)**

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><p><strong>Kingdom<strong>

Once upon a time there was a tribe of people called the Aestii. They were a peaceful sort and did not fight wars with their neighbors or go out and slaughter villages. They loved nature and worshipped the mother goddess as their deity. Like many different places around the world, these people had a person who personified them and their culture. His name was also Aestii.

Aestii looked like a man and acted like a man, but he was not a man. He had a special connection with his land and people, he could feel their joys and sorrows in his heart as if they were his own. Even though he represented the land and people, he was still very human in many ways. He even had children. But they were not children that had been born from a wife. These children had no mother, and were born from the earth. They were a sign of things to come. These children were called Lithuania and Prussia. They were both quiet and gentle children and they lived a peaceful, uneventful life.

And then the Romans came.

They were strangers with odd metal armor and metal weapons. They were wonderful and fierce and many were curious about them. Aestii was delighted when he saw that these people had someone who represented them as well: a man called Roman Empire. Aestii knew only a few people who were like him, only Scania and Germania, and this comrade could become a friend. However, Lithuania was frightened of the Empire and Prussia did not like him.

The Romans were conquerors, but for some reason the Aestii were spared. Instead they were interested in amber, which washed up along the coastline. The two of them started to trade back and forth, and this continued on for years. Along the way Aestii gained two more children, Estonia and Latvia. Even though they were all related, none of the children were very close to each other. They watched their father deal with the Romans, but they noticed that every day that their dearest parent was looking paler, thinner, and more tired. This continued on until one day they woke up and found Aestii gone. He had disappeared, as all nations eventually do, and the children were left alone. Lithuania was the oldest and took it upon himself to take care of his siblings. But Prussia was a very independent child, so he left his home to live with Germania and his children.

At first the other children mocked him and treated him cruelly, but Germania took him in and raised him as his own. Over time Prussia grew distant from his brothers and regarded the Germans as his new family. He and his adopted siblings fought often, but then they would also band together to fight the Romans. They sacked the city of Rome over and over, eventually toppling the mighty Empire. After he fought by their side, Prussia was considered to be part of the family instead of an unwanted burden. However, soon after the Roman Empire fell, Germania disappeared just like Aestii had. It was a huge blow to the Germans, especially Prussia, who saw Germania as a second father. Left alone to fend for themselves, the children grew separate and went off on their own.

In the time known as the Dark Ages, all of the countries had lost their parents, and they were as confused and lost as their people. Many of them turned to fighting and conquering and they were making the beginning of their own countries. Prussia went back to his own lands, trying to live peacefully by himself. For a while he succeeded, but then the Germans invaded his home. They slaughtered his people and kept him as a captive under their rule. They were known as the Teutonic Knights. The knights held him for years, trying to break him and his people. But Prussia would not fall. He fought and fought, but eventually he realized that he could not win against such a powerful enemy. Instead of fighting, he decided to join him.  
>He killed the original leader of the Teutonic Knights and took control of the order. He rode with them into battle and was forced to kill his own Prussians. He learned how to fight and conquer, things essential for a country to know. After a while the influence of the Germans took its toll on him and his people; they saw themselves as wholly German and paid little attention to their Baltic roots. He did not think about his brothers anymore. With the knights he grew strong and his name was feared throughout the land. "The Teutonic Knights are invincible," people would whisper to each other in fear. Then one day Prussia fought against Poland and Lithuania at the Battle of Tannenberg. He no longer looked upon his brother with love, but greed. The battle was very fierce, and Prussia saw his knights crushed by his older brother. They never recovered and their power was broken.<p>

Even though the order was gone, existing only in name, Prussia refused to fade. He lived, even though his people and lands were scattered. Later, Poland granted one of his knights some land, and he made the land into a country: Prussia. His fortune was suddenly reversed, and now that he was a proper country he started to grow strong again. Centuries passed and he rose and fell. Sometimes his leaders helped him, sometimes he had to help himself. But no matter how hard he tried, war, famine, and other countries would keep him forever down, groveling before them. He found himself constantly overshadowed by larger, wealthier, more civilized countries.

His kings gave him an army. A wonderful, dazzling army that his fellow nations swiftly grew jealous of. But only one took advantage of this army. He led them to war and glory. He defeated many of his enemies, all of whom were larger than his country, and made Prussia into a great power. No one had ever done this to Prussia before; his leaders in the past had more often than not wanted to further their own power, but this man had fought and shed blood just for his country's benefit. In return, Prussia loved this king with all of his heart and was absolutely devoted to him. He did anything and everything for his beloved, which was reciprocated wholeheartedly. For a long time the king and his country lived peacefully together, but one day the king died, just like everything else that Prussia had ever loved.

His death threw Prussia into the deepest grief, one that he thought that he would never recover from. His new king replaced the old, and he felt his power waning. Prussia was never one to give up, so he pulled himself out of his depression and put all of his work and energy into taking care of his new little brother, the one who knew deep down in his soul would replace him one day. Through the years Prussia fought, and sometimes he was beaten, but many times he was victorious. He waged wars for his little brother, and under the rule of another great king and his minister they formed a new country and placed his brother at the head of it: Deutschland. Germany.

The brothers rose to power together, laughing at the world that had tried to hold them down. But then disaster struck. War broke out, but it was not any old war that Prussia fought on a regular basis. This was a great war, a war to end all wars, a war in which the world was involved. For a while the Germans were winning, but then the tide turned against them. Their enemies knocked them down and Prussia found himself facing the executioner's axe. Others wanted to destroy his country and make it little more than a memory. However, fate stayed Death's hand, and while he escaped he was stripped of his power and left to wallow in despair.

But while the siblings were struck with poverty and sickness from the war, after many years Germany began to grow stronger. His people rose out of the dust and were headed by a leader who had words of silver and could turn many to his cause. Prussia watched as his little brother got stronger, feeling himself fall at the same time. The larger and more powerful Germany grew, the more Prussia declined. Then they began another war that was much like the first—and once more the world fought—and again they seemed destined to win. But history was repeating itself, and when they seemed at the height of their power they were once again pulled down. They were charged with crimes of the utmost evil, and this time there would be no mercy. The blame fell upon Prussia once more, and the nation's heart broke when he saw his own brother agree to his death. His country was dissolved and his greedy neighbors tore him apart as they laid claims to lands that were once his.

Prussia should have died then. He had no land or people to call his own. But he did not.

He was taken by his most hated enemy and forced to live under a new roof, under his rule. He was given a new name, Deutsche Demokratische Republik, and became a slave to his captor's will. Prussia tried to be obedient, but for such an independent spirit like himself he found that hard. He tried to fight, but he was punished harshly. Then his enemy built a Wall in the middle of his country and split his heart in two. Suddenly he was alone, isolated from his dearest little brother by an obstacle that could not be broken. And yet, the irony of ironies, Prussia found himself reunited with his Baltic family. They all suffered together, subjected to every kind of torture that their captor could think of in order to break them. The years went by and every day Prussia grew weaker. He barely had any hold on the world, not even his own people called themselves Prussians anymore. At times the former nation would weep himself sick at the loneliness he felt and wonder why he did not die.

His enemy was flawed, and as time went on his power grew weaker. Other nations hounded him and wore him down until his power finally broke. Prussia fled, running to the hated Wall that his people were tearing down. But as the power of his enemy crumbled, so did he. His country was uniting with his brother's and he was no longer needed. He fell, kicking and screaming all the way. Once again he was dying, and once more he fought. He was stricken with poverty, his people were disheartened, his land nonexistant, and his name was just as it was: nothing more than a name to be lost in history. And yet Prussia would still not die. Despite all of his suffering, Prussia still wanted to live. He became the other half of his brother's country, like the other side of a coin. His own force of will kept him alive.

And he stills lives on, even to this day. Because he was too stubborn not to.

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><p><strong>AN: Vaguest Prussian history ever. It may be inaccurate at parts, especially at the beginning. Especially with the names, I didn't know whether to call Lithuania Lietuva or Liuta, then I realized that if I changed his name then I would have to change Prussia's then I said screw it XD  
>The ending really hit me though. I had to wait for a few minutes before I finally typed it, because Prussia's history makes me so sad. <strong>


	4. Demented - Flowers

**A/N: Yaaay more! This might not be ten but I'm too excited with my next mini-project to care 3**

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><p><strong>Demented<strong>

There were times when Frederick was actually afraid of his country. They weren't common times, but each was burned into his memory. Of course, Prussia never gave him a reason to be afraid of him. His overall appearance and commanding aura was unsettling at times, but his country had never showed him anything other than the utmost kindness. The first time he saw Prussia's darker side terrified him.

He remembered it as clearly as if it had just occurred. His father had always been thrown into rages over some matter or another, and he always took his anger out on his son. This time was no different. It had started with a plate being thrown at him and was quickly followed by a harsh cuff to the head. Frederick William started shouting, winding himself up for a good tongue-lashing. Most of the servants had already fled, and the brave ones that stayed behind turned and ran when the King screamed at them to get out. Being left alone to face the wrath of his father terrified the prince. He wouldn't even defend himself, just flinch and whimper and avoid his father's eye until the storm blew over. However it just incensed the King's rage and soon the abuse turned to open slaps and grabbing him by the front of his shirt and throwing him into the furniture. Screaming would not be of any help, but he did it anyway, if anything to give his pain a voice of its own. He saw his father raise his cane and closed his eyes, waiting for the blow.

But it never came.

He cracked open an eye and saw an astonishing sight. A gloved hand had grasped the king's wrist, stopping it in mid-blow. Frederick William was left staring in amazement at the perpetrator: Prussia. "Don't you _dare _touch him with that cane," the country growled in a low voice.

That voice tugged at his heart in a way nothing else ever had. All at once the nation seemed terrible and imposing and he wanted to leap to his feet and stand beside him. He wanted to help Gilbert in whatever possible way he could, even face his father for the glory of Prussia. He remembered how his brief flare of patriotism shocked him—mainly because it was entirely unprompted and had simply entered his head like a lightning bolt from a god—and before he could dwell on it he saw Prussia's face and all of his thoughts were blown away like dead leaves. There was nothing kind about Prussia's face now, his lips were curled back in a snarl and his crimson eyes shone with an almost demonic light. His face was hard and his jaw muscles were working furiously as he tried to stay quiet. A lesser man would have fallen to his knees in terror. Even now he could see some of the returning servants peeping around the doorway, all of them trembling like rabbits.

Frederick William did not seem to be the least bit affected by the magnetic aura of the country he ruled. His eyes widened in shock, and then narrowed in fury. "_How dare you,_" he said in a voice that was almost as low as Gilbert's. He locked gazes with the albino, ice and fire mingling to build a storm on the horizon. A storm that was about to unleash all the fury of hell. "How dare you defy your King!" He yanked his arm free of Prussia's grip and whirled to face him. Fritz tried to crawl back, away from the duo. It felt as if two titans had come down to Earth in order to do battle; no one dared to intercede.

His father must have heard him, for his head turned. Suddenly there was a blur of white and blue and Prussia was standing in front of him protectively. "Run, Fritz," he ordered, not even turning to look at him.

"You cannot order my son—" Frederick William sputtered.

"_Go!"_ Prussia yelled.

That rippling voice was back and his body obeyed the command before his mind even processed it. He leaped to his feet as if jerked up by invisible ropes and ran for his life as his father started shouting again. A loud _crack _reverberated across the room, and he turned in just enough time to see Prussia crumple to the floor, his hair matted with blood. He had not even lifted his arms to defend himself. Frederick William raised his cane again and brought it down swiftly with another _crack._ An entirely different scream echoed across the palace.

The servants scattered like bowling pins as the prince ran through them, nearly blinded by tears. When they were out of the way he flew down the hall, trying to make his legs move as fast as possible. He thought that if he would run fast enough then he would probably outrun the sounds—the screaming and the sickening crack of breaking bones that he could recall even in the present day. He had avoided his father for days after that, Prussia for even longer. His father would still fly into rages, sometimes even in front of his country, and despite Prussia's efforts Frederick William did eventually use his cane against the prince, but the soldier never again defied his king in such an outright manner. Frederick saw him struck with the cane, dishes, even with rock salt that his father loaded into his pistol. The albino always bore it without a murmur, but sometimes he could see a shadow of that chilling rage flicker in the back of those blood-colored eyes. But he never saw such an episode again.

When he was coroneted that changed. Plans for war had invaded his head and he gladly marched into Silesia with Gilbert at his side. The albino had been laughing and joking, eager for the first battle. Many of the soldiers found it frightening to see someone who obviously _wanted _to be in the middle of cannons and thundering hooves and the great melee of armies clashing, including Fritz, but he knew that it was just how Gilbert was. A ghost of that murderous rage he had seen so many years ago occasionally entered his eyes, but it only reared its head at Mollwitz. He saw Prussia in the middle of the fray, rising from the gun smoke like a phoenix from ashes, much to the terror of the Austrians. It seemed as if bullets and cannons and swords could not touch him, not even when he whirlwinded directly into the Austrian line with his soldiers and sent their blood flying high into the air. His mad, wild laughter rang out over their screams.

The second display of hid bloodlust scared his almost as much as the first one. Later Prussia had laughed at his fear and had to gently explain it away. It was something that came over him during battle and it was something that his king and his men never needed to be afraid of. "I could never hurt any one of my people," the country told him sincerely. "Not even if they committed the highest treason or if they tried to run me through with a sword. I could never raise a threatening finger against them." Frederick had not been totally convinced, even though he never had seen Prussia harm any of his soldiers in battle, but as the war went on he found himself growing used to it. He had numbed himself to what eyewitnesses called "possession." He knew better than to blame demons though.

"You make me pity whatever enemies we may have," Frederick once said as he watched Prussia pulled his sword out of a soldier that he had nearly cleaved in two. The battlefield was scattered with dead soldiers and many of the Prussians were going around to put the mortally wounded out of their misery.

"As you should," Prussia said, studying the blade in the dying light. "All enemies of Prussia should be pitied, because they shall receive no mercy from me." He twisted his sword this way and that, watching his reflection distort with each movement.

Then he leaned forward and licked the blood from his blade.

Frederick did not even flinch.

**Lipstick**

Germany worried. Probably a lot more than what was considered healthy for a regular person, and if he had been a normal human being then his hair would have turned as white as his brother's ages ago. He had no idea why he worried so much. Gilbert always teased him and said that it was his OCD and rabid perfectionism acting crazy, but Ludwig scoffed at him and his wild ideas. He was _not _OCD. Regardless, he worried about his country, about his work, about what was going on with the world, and he worried about his older brother.

He knew that his older sibling could take care of himself (although sometimes it was hard to tell) and that he had no reason to be concerned. Ever since the Wall had been torn down he worried about Gilbert's health (but back then it had been entirely justified) and after a while the albino had told him to stop. He had tried, he really had, and if he had been successful then that would mean that he was _not _currently pacing his house like a madman. It would mean that he was _not _checking his phone repeatedly for messages, even though it was in his hand and on the highest volume so it was impossible to miss one. It would mean that he was _not _constantly toying with the Iron Cross around his neck, a sign that he was nervous. It would mean that he was _not _peering out the windows and cursing when he saw nothing. He would not be doing any of those things, because that would mean that he was worrying. Again.

However, that was all possible if Germany had somehow broken his habit of worrying excessively and had gone to bed hours ago.

It was two forty-three a.m. The blond man snapped his phone shut harshly, glaring at it in an accusingly manner. Gilbert had been gone for eight hours and seventeen minutes (_not _that he was counting every single minute or anything, he just like to be precise, that was all) and had not given him a single call all throughout those so many hours and minutes. Could he at least have bothered to send him a text? It didn't even matter if it was one of those inane "Wazzup"s or something equally short, he would at least know that Prussia still had his phone. What if he had lost it or something? Or he could just be in a place that had no reception.

_Don't be ridiculous, _he told himself. _He went out with Francis and Antonio, there is no possible way they are going to leave the city. _He was pacing again ad he could feel the dogs' eyes on him with every step. They had not gone to sleep either because his restless prowling kept them awake.

Two-fifty. Ten minutes away from three in the morning and still no sign of him. Ludwig tried to concentrate so he could think correctly, but he was getting dizzy. This is what Gilbert did to him; if he had at least called then he would not be worrying so much! He ran a hand through his hair and wondered if tearing it out would do any good.

_Thump._

Berlitz started to bark. Ludwig froze with his hand still in his hair. What was that? He knew something had hit the door, but it sounded rather heavy and soft. A little unwieldy as well. It actually reminded him of the noise a body made when thrown—he was running for the door in an instant. He yanked it open and was assaulted by his brother's voice. "_Verdammt Francis, was der Teufel bist—" _he broke off as Ludwig grabbed him. "Heya there Lutz, what are you doing up so late?"

"_Adieu, _Gilbert!" France called out from the darkness. He and Spain were not visible, but Ludwig could hear them giggling and laughing drunkenly.

"Hey West," Gilbert said, arresting his attention. "Y'gotta see this stuff we got. Pretty sweet sh—"

"What happened to your clothes?" Ludwig demanded, cutting through his slurred sentence. The younger German had rather belatedly realized that his brother had swapped out his previous clothes for a black French maid's dress. Little lacy headdress, puffed out sleeves, scandalously low neckline, low petticoat that just barely covered his hips and oh _Gott _was that a _garter belt? _Ludwig felt his face heat up.

Gilbert made a sound that may have been a laugh, snort, or choke. "Ah, Francis bought this crap with him. Tha's part of the story actually. . . " He let himself be dragged into the house and Ludwig heard the distinct click of stilettos on the hardwood floor. Gilbert kept babbling on about his friend's scheme and Ludwig tried to tune it out, he had heard such stories before and did not want to hear them again.

Now that they were in the light of the living room he noticed another detail. "Is that lipstick?" he asked, running his thumb across Gilbert's smudged lips. His skin came away red.

"I said it was France's idea," Gilbert replied in annoyance. "Anyways, we were at this bar and these two totally hot babes walk in together. I mean, _damn._ And of course France wanted to bang 'em on the spot but they were both lesbians so he decided that we were all gonna put on these dresses that he had—"

No, he did _not _want to hear it."Where are the rest of your clothes?" He saw that Gilbert was carrying nothing but a black tube (more lipstick, presumably) and a camera. He did not want to know what was on the camera.

The ex-nation did not like the interruption. "Don' have 'em," he said with a shrug. "Think France was supposed to watch 'em."

Oh of course. Ludwig's hand twitched, automatically wanting to connect with his forehead. Yet another habit he needed to break. "Come on," he sighed, dragging his brother down the hall. "You need to get out of those clothes."

He heard a laugh behind him. "I would _love _that," Gilbert said right before he grabbed his ass.

It was going to be a long night.

**Heaven**

Books. Books, books, and more books! The shelves were absolutely filled with them from floor to ceiling. Their multicolored spines displayed their titles dully, many cracked and worn with use. There were tomes and volumes and novels, some as wide as his palm and others no thicker than his finger. He scanned the titles, reading French, along with Latin, Greek, and the occasional Italian. He didn't see a single work in German. A thin layer of dust covered many of the rows, showing that the servants needed to clean the place. Of course that depended on Fritz actually letting someone into the library.

He ran a finger along one of the shelves and frowned at the dust that clung to it. "Do you intend to bury yourself in dust and papers?" he asked out loud. "Look at how stuffy this place is, it's like a tomb already."

"Of course not," Frederick's voice laughed from somewhere. "After all, the troops need to be inspected later."

He flicked the dust from his fingertip and headed for the voice. Poking his head around a corner, he found Frederick seated by the window, reading one of the older books. He silently crept up behind him and started reading over his shoulder. "Holy scripture? Really?" he said. "I thought you weren't religious."

"I'm not," Frederick said, toying with the edge of his page. "However, when you have a question and the only shadow of an answer lies within religious texts then I will, with great reluctance, look there."

Gilbert's brows dipped in thought. He drummed his fingers across the back of the chair. "And what is this question?" he asked.

Frederick did not answer him at first. His finger traced slow circles in the corner of his page. Gilbert did not need to look at him to know that he was no longer paying attention to the words in front of him and was probably biting his lip he did every time something bothered him. "I was thinking about heaven, actually," he admitted. "What the Holy Writ says about it." He sounded almost ashamed of himself.

"Ah," was the only thing Gilbert said. He was somewhat surprised, since Fritz did not tend to dwell on such subjects, but he knew that every person had the question crop up at least once in their lives. He sat down on the edge of the desk, making it creak. Frederick gave a disapproving look but did not say anything. "And what have you gathered?"

There was a beat of silence. "That the information in here is quite vague and largely useless." He closed the book and set it down. "It seems as if most authors just leave it up to your imagination."

"Well it's not like someone can just go there and come back and write about what he saw," Prussia replied idly. "Well, except for Lazarus but he was pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing. But maybe that is a large part of the afterlife: imagination."

Frederick gave him a long, searching look that made him squirm. Those clear blue eyes of his could be so unsettling sometimes. "Are you saying that all notions of heaven and hell are just fantasies created by the human mind?" He asked in a low voice.

"Of course not," Gilbert said, his eyes widening a little."But things are not as solid and unchanging are you are led to believe."

There was another long minute of silence. Gilbert wished that Fritz would stop _staring _at him like that. "What do you mean?" The king finally said. "You act as if you have been there."

Prussia fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve. "Well, I kinda have, in a way." He saw Fritz's eyes widen. "Not heaven itself, but. . . it's hard to explain."

"I shall try to listen," Frederick said, leaning forward a little.

He sighed and rubbed his temple in thought. Well, this was a fine little hole he had dug himself into. "Well, being a country, I cannot die, right?" Fritz nodded. "I can, however, be killed." Frederick opened his mouth to say something and he held up a hand. "Wait a moment, let me explain. My heart can stop beating. I can succumb to wounds and poison. If someone shoots me, I can die. I can fall victim to all those unfortunate accidents that so plague other people. But the thing that makes me so different is that I will not _stay _dead."

Frederick nodded slowly. "Yes, you have told me this many times."

"I have," Prussia agreed, "but this is one of my major points. I have not actually _been _to heaven or whatever, because only the truly dead people can go there. But when your body dies, your soul doesn't stick around. It has to go somewhere. Sometimes even those who are on the verge of death have their soul leave their body. But these people don't go to the afterlife, they're stuck in the between-place."

"The what?" Fritz asked.

Prussia waved a hand dismissively. "Limbo, the halfway point, the tunnel, the red field, Summerland, whatever they call it nowadays. We nations have always called it the between-place."

"Very creative," Fritz said with a smile.

"Whatever. But anyways, as nations we cannot 'die', in a sense. Our souls don't go to the Other Side. We can't. We are stuck in the between-place until we are resurrected. But I have talked to people from the afterlife and have listened to their tales." He paused again until Frederick gestured for him to go on. "Well . . .from what I've been able to hear—because they are really secretive about the whole thing—there is no divide in places. There is no 'heaven' filled with sunshine and happiness and rainbows in the clouds where everything is just dandy and there is no 'hell' with fire and brimstone and you're all chained up with horned devils wielding pitchforks stab you for fun while singing 'damn ye all sinners.'"

"What. . . " Frederick's expression said it all.

"Semantics. Anyway, all souls, good or bad, go to the afterlife. Some souls find it very enjoyable, some hate it. There is some divine influence going on a little there, I mean good souls are blessed to enjoy themselves and souls that have done wrong are given a hard time of it, but there's no such thing as throwing you into a pit of fire and letting you sit there for the rest of eternity over some crime. They don't just shove people into one place and let them stay there. What also plays a large part is your thoughts. Each person has a different view of heaven, so you can create your own heaven, in a sense." He was doing a poor job of explaining himself, but the afterlife was a blurry subject anyway. He could only relate what he had heard from others.

Frederick was silent for a long time after that. He stared out of the window, his eyes glassy and distant. He was so still that he could have been a painted statue. Finally a very small smile curled his lips. "It sounds very confusing," he said at last.

Gilbert laughed. "You're being kind. Besides, I wouldn't worry if I were you." He reached out and patted his head. "I'm certain that you'll get into heaven, or whatever the hell it's called."

**Judgment**

"The root of all evil in Germany is Prussia. It is a cancer that must be cut out."

He flinched and closed his eyes at the words that fell upon him. They were bullets aimed right at his heart and he could feel it beating faster. He swallowed and opened his eyes, telling himself that he would _not _cringe from their words like a guilty child being scolded by his parents. Ironically this was not a war that he had started, or had been interested in, and yet he was still to take the blame. It was better than the alternative though.

They all stood above him like wrathful gods. Britain looked furious; he could _not _let go of a grudge, could he? America looked slightly sad and could barely look him in the eye and France would not look at him at all and simply stared at the table. China was not present, he did not know Prussia very well and therefore did not care too much about what happened to him. And Russia was just sitting there with that damned _smile _on his face like he was at a fucking picnic.

_Old Fritz, please help me, _he prayed silently, feeling the weight of the situation starting to crush him. He had escaped this fate once before, but he wasn't so sure if he could replicate it.

"I vote that we dissolve the country of Prussia," Arthur went on, oblivious to the albino's thoughts. "We can get rid of this evil once and for all." His mouth twisted as he said this, as if he had just eaten a lemon. His sharp eyes scanned the others' as if waiting for an argument. . .or pleading for one. Even from his position Gilbert could see Arthur's hands shaking. Silence stretched out, broken only by someone tapping their fingers. "America?" Britain asked, hopefully it seemed.

The youngest country twiddled his thumbs uneasily. "Are we even allowed to do that?" He blurted out after a long pause. "I mean, you can't just say 'you no longer exist' and be done with it. Prussia still has a culture and people who believe themselves to be Prussians."

_But that doesn't mean anything. Not in the long run. _ Prussia thought, his hands started to tremble. He gripped the arms of his chair to hide it.

He saw America's face fall. He must have missed the rebuttal in his fe—he gripped the chair tighter until his knuckles looked like they were about to pop out of his skin. He forced those thoughts out of his head. Well, he couldn't fault the kid for trying. And to think that he once believed that America would jump at the chance to get rid of his former mentor. He heard Alfred talking again. "For god's sake Arthur, you can't just _kill _him!" Oh boy, he was playing the "Arthur" card.

"Don't you think I already know that?" Arthur yelled, smashing his fist so hard against the table that the wood cracked. "My hands are tied Alfred. My Boss ordered me to do this. My people are calling for it. I can't do anything else." He looked away, ashamed at the little influence he had.

Oh this was rich. Was Arthur actually _guilty _for doing this to him? He might have laughed if he hadn't been so touched. He swallowed the lump in his throat and suddenly he realized Arthur's ploy. Britain's vote could be overruled by the others. For a moment he felt hope, but then it was cruelly squashed when he saw America shake his head. "My Boss agrees," the young country said haltingly. "I—I'm sorry Arthur. . . Prussia, I—" he finally looked at him "—I'm so sorry. I wish that there was something I could do."

He tried to smile, he really did, but he felt it mangle on his face. "Hey, don't beat yourself up over it," he said. His voice sounded hollow and distant even to his own ears. "You have to obey your Boss, no way around it." _The same way _I _hand to obey _my _Boss, _he wanted to add. There words were still there though, hovering about the room, waiting to be plucked down and spoken.

Britain nodded, that lemon-look back. "France?" he asked gently. It was a freaking miracle; Prussia never thought he would ever see Britain talked to his archenemy in a voice that was not loud nor insulting. War really did forge strange alliances.

At first Francis did not reply. He held his head in his hands and stared at the table. He kept clenching his fingers as if he wanted to tear his hair out. _Come on Francis, _Prussia thought desperately. _You can sway them. You still have some influence. _But he knew deep in his heart that it would not work. They had invaded Paris, after all, and Napoleon and the Franco-Prussian War had not done wonders to their relationship. Even if Francis had forgiven his friend, his leaders had not. He saw the blond slowly shake his head. "_Non," _he said quietly. He sounded as if he was about to cry. "I have no say in this. My Boss votes yes."

A vote of majority. Prussia felt the last nail in his coffin being hammered home. Everything was too bright, his heart was racing and his mouth was bone-dry. The room tilted and righted itself again. This was it, wasn't it? This was how it ended. Not in the glory of battle, as he had always dreamed, but having his enemies simply talk about it with their politics and diplomacy. For a long moment he could not hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears, but then he saw Russia raise his hand. Oh what _now?_

"I would like to vote against the dissolution of _Prussiyah," _the violet-eyes man said quietly, his voice echoing in Gilbert's confused brain. He looked right at Gilbert as he said this, and the look in his eyes made him want to bolt. _Look at what I'm doing for you, _his expression said. _I am trying to save your pathetic life, even though I don't have to. You _owe _me for this, Prussia. _

Oh no, _this _was rich. Russia was sticking up for _him? _The only two nations that could rival each other in their hatred were Britain and France (although that might be changing) so why the hell would Russia want to keep him around? Ivan knew damn well that Gilbert hated him almost as he hated Feliks.

"Ivan, you are quite overruled here," Britain said reluctantly. "Even if—"

"Would you rather me withdraw my support?" Russia interrupted, his words as sweet as poisoned honey. His smile had not faltered for a moment.

There was a beat of silence. The Soviet Union was now one of the most powerful countries, and he never made idle threats. "Ivan, let's be reasonable—" Arthur began.

"_Nyet," _Ivan cut him off again, his voice losing all of its warmth. "Prussia may be dissolved, but I would be quite unhappy if dear Gilbert were to vanish. We all have been friends with him at one point, _da?" _ No one replied, looking away guiltily. France winced as the word "friends" as if he had just been hit. Russia started to smile again, his lips twisting and making a cruel mockery of what should have been a comforting gesture. "Let me propose something," he said, looking like a wolf leaning closer to snap its jaws around the prey. "The country of Prussia may be dissolved, but give me the land. I can find a way to put Gilbert to use."

Oh _fuck _no—

"That. . .might be possible," Britain said after a pause.

"Do I have a say in this?" Prussia asked, his voice cracking.

Everyone turned to him. "Of course you do," Ivan said gleefully. "Why, if you don't want to come with me then I can always take Ludwig instead. He such a hard work—"

"_Don't you dare touch him!" _Gilbert yelled and leaping to his feet, kicking his chair away as he did so. He saw all of the Allies reach for their weapons.

Ivan's smile widened. "Then we know what the decision will be, _da?" _

He stared at them for a long moment, so furious that he was shaking. He wanted a knife or a gun or _something _that he could shove through Ivan's face and watch his head explode. After a long minute of silence he hung his head. Yes, he knew exactly what the judgment would be. After all, he had no other choice.

**Bully**

"—had I been treated so by my father, I would have blown my brains out, but this fellow has no honor; he takes all that comes." The king thumped his cane against the floor in his conviction.

_Had I been treated so by my father, I would have killed him, not myself. _Prussia thought in reply, wisely holding his tongue. He saw Frederick wince and turn his head as if to fend off a blow. From his position he could see the prince clenching his fists in his coat, probably imagining them around Frederick William's neck. He couldn't blame the kid for not sticking up for himself, that was just asking for the cane. Well, that was what he was here for, it seemed.

He cleared his throat a little. "My, King, if I—"

"Don't you start with me!" Frederick William immediately shouted, rounding upon him. "You and your little protests and 'If I may suggest's that you repeat like some goddamned parrot! When will you learn to keep a civil tongue inside your head?"

Alright, that was a little too far.

"When the person I'm talking to requires it!" he snapped back before he could stop himself. _Shit, _he thought as the others watching the spectacle gasped. Even Fritz looked amazed; no one but Prussia had ever dared to speak to the King in such a manner.

To his surprise, the cane did not immediately swing for his head. However, the fury he saw in Frederick William's stormy gray eyes promised something much worse. "And you are hardly the judge of _that, _as I can see." Frederick William snarled venomously. "With no official rank, you think that gives you the right to speak out whenever it pleases you, like a dog barking at shadows. Absolutely no manners at all."

"Your Majesty—" someone tried to say, his face pale.

"God, it's everywhere!" the king roared. "Always speaking up and interrupting! Fine students of the coward here." He gestured to Frederick.

The teenager bristled. ""At least they have something worthwhile to say," he replied coldly.

Prussia shot him a warning look. It was too late to save him, however. "Get out!" Frederick William yelled, finally swinging his cane. Frederick tried to avoid it and ended up getting hit in the shoulder instead of his head. One of the onlookers yelled and stepped forward, and then quickly jumped back as the king tried to hit him as well. In the distraction, Frederick turned and ran, heading straight for the door. "Look at him! So used to running that he doesn't even know how to stand and fight!" Frederick William yelled, snatching a vase and throwing it.

The heavy thing sailed through the air, aimed at the prince's head. It twirled as it flew and nearly crashed into a chandelier as it reached the apex of its path. Fritz paused at the door, trying to open it, and nearly leaped out of his skin when he heard the crack of a gunshot. He turned, petrified that his father might be shooting at him, and saw fragments of white porcelain flying across the room. Everyone's gaze was on Prussia, who casually lowered his smoking gun with all the calmness in the world.

The door flew open and nearly bashed him on the head. "Your Majesties," a servant said breathlessly. "Is everything alright? We heard a shot—" they were nearly knocked aside as Frederick ran past them.

Gilbert smiled and nudged a piece of porcelain with his boot. Oh yeah, his aim was still awesome. The smile was soon wiped off his face as the cane struck his hand, breaking bones and causing him to drop his gun.

**Wind**

He had always loved high places, even as a child. Especially as a child, actually. Whenever he got into a fight or didn't feel so well he always found the tallest tree that he could and climbed right to the very top. He remembered sitting like that for hours, just thinking about things until he felt the need to come down or until Aestii went looking for him.

That was harder to do nowadays. Mainly because most of the large forests had been cut down and the trees left were not nearly tall enough to satisfy him. If he wanted to find a good, proper sized tree then he would have to march into the more rural places of his country, which he could not do, unfortunately, unless he had a very good reason. But when he was in the middle of say, a war, then it was perfectly acceptable to wander about the terrain. He liked to be alone most of these times, but in this particular incident he wanted some company other than Gilbird. And he got it.

"I cannot believe I let you talk me into this," Fritz grumbled somewhere below him.

He smiled widely, knowing that Frederick couldn't see it, and forced back a laugh. "Oh please, it's not that bad," he said, finding a foothold on another branch. "Didn't you ever climb trees when you were little?"

"No, I did not," Frederick shot back, sounding almost offended by the question.

"Tch. You missed out on some great stuff." He replied, swinging up another few feet. He was now above the other trees and could see the sun setting in the distance. It turned the sky a vibrant orange and deepened the color of the trees to almost black.

Frederick's deadpanned reply finally made him laugh. "I shed tears of regret." Almost as soon as he said it the tree moved, prompted into a gentle sway by the wind. "Gilbert. . . "

He would have looked back but he was not at the right angle to do so. "Trust me, you're not gonna fall. Not unless a tornado comes through here. Just move slowly if you're nervous." A grumble answered him, protesting against his notion that his king was nervous. He would have laughed again but he knew that it would just upset Fritz even further. "If it's any consolation, we're almost there."

"This is complete insanity," Frederick muttered, apparently not taking it as a consolation. "We have no reason at all to climb trees like a bunch of monkies. It's undignified."

He would have rolled his eyes if Frederick could see him. "Oh loosen up a little. We can view the army from here."

"We aren't even facing the army."

Finally he came to a good, solid branch that was twice as thick as his own body. This tree had to have been very old to grow like that. He clambered onto the branch and leaned back against the trunk, feeling the wind play with his clothes and hair. Up here the air was clean and crisp, filled with the scent of the forest below them. Gilbird chirped in delight and flitted from branch to branch, warbling out the notes of a song. "Alright then, you get a magnificent view of the sunset," Gilbert said, pointing at the sinking orb of fire in front of him.

Fritz suddenly appeared next to him, looking several shades paler than usual and was trying not to look down. "And how is that supposed to be useful?" he asked, trying to raise an eyebrow and failing.

Prussia sighed. "No one is nearby, so we aren't going to be attacked, if that's what you're afraid of." He saw some of the tension leave Fritz face and grinned. "Now, come here and watch the sunset with me." Without any warning he grabbed his king and picked him up—prompting an undignified squeak from the monarch—and set him in his lap. "There," he said with a self-satisfied smile on his face. Fritz was just small enough for him to rest his chin on top of his head, which he did despite the grumbling he heard below him. Let Fritz grumble, he was enjoying this. "Your heart is beating way too fast," he muttered after a moment. With his arms around his lover's torso he could easily feel his heart working overtime through all of his layers of clothing. "Calm down a little, will you?"

"You could have warned me before doing something like that," Frederick shot back. Despite his words and tone he was leaning back against his chest and making himself more comfortable. "You scared me half to death."

He chuckled, which he probably shouldn't have but he couldn't help himself. "Do you think I would let you fall?" he asked quietly, hugging him closer like he was a giant pillow. Despite the wind, the heat of their bodies kept them warm.

He felt Frederick's chest expand and then heard a sigh. "No, I don't think you would," the king replied.

"Exactly," Prussia said, his smile widening. "So there's no need to worry. I'd rather cut off my hands than let you fall."

"Well, there's no need for _that," _Frederick answered with a chuckle, his humor returning. "Might I ask why we have to climb all the way to the top of a tree to view the sunset? We can do that on the ground."

"But this has a better view," Prussia said and tightened his grip a little. "And we are quite alone up here. No one would dare follow us."

He sensed rather than saw Fritz's smile. "I see," was the only reply he got. Then there was silence except for the occasional gust of wind. It was refreshing and invigorating; he could taste it on his tongue, fresh pine needles and sweet-smelling bark. It was his home.

The sun was almost halfway gone when Frederick spoke again. "This is quite nice once you get used to it," he remarked. He sounded amazed, as if he couldn't believe what he was saying.

"That shows you not to doubt my awesome ideas," Gilbert said, nipping him on the ear as punishment. He was promptly elbowed in return. "That was rude," he said gently nibbled on his neck. After all, it wasn't like Fritz could get away so he might as well take advantage of their situation. "Just wait until the sun goes down," he breathed, his lips gently ghosting over skin. "Then we'll really have some fun."

Fritz went very still at those words and what they implied. "What happens when the sun goes down?" he question, his voice heavy with suspicion.

Gilbert laughed. "We climb back down, of course. In the dark."

There was the expected silence. Then Fritz sat up. "Get me down," he ordered. "Now."

"But Fritz, the sun hasn't even set—"

"_Now."_

**Flowers**

Hmph! Why did the owners have to have a stupid flower garden in the middle of the yard? It was so _boring _and the pollen made him sneeze. Never mind the fact that mice liked to live there, whenever he dug up the stupid things to kill the mice he was always scolded, so he learned to leave well enough alone. He lashed his tail in annoyance and stared at the offending plants as if he wanted to tear them up anyway, regardless of the consequences.

Gilbird peeped from his head, gently pecking him on the noggin as if to goad him on. "Stop that," Prussicat meowed and swiped a paw at the chick. The bird was used to such things and simply flew over his paw before settling back down again. Prussicat scowled at him and then turned back to the flowers. "Old Fritzcat!" he yowled.

Something stirred in the depths of the flower bed. "Yes?" a voice that was considerably more gentle called back.

Prussicat laid his head on his paws and pouted as well as a cat could pout. "Come out of there. I'm bored!"

"And I was napping," Fritzcat replied in amusement. "And I'm going to continue my nap, if you don't mind."

"Of course I mind!" The albino cat meowed, leaping to his paws. "I wouldn't be bugging you otherwise! Friiitzcaaat, there's no one to play with!" He lashed his tail as he whined, stirring up grass and any unfortunate insects hiding in it.

"I'm sorry about that," the voice replied sincerely. "I will play with you after my nap, if you would like."

His ears drooped. "Can't you play now and sleep later?" Prussicat asked, slowly stepping closer until the flower stalks were right in front of his nose. He wanted to sneeze.

The figure in the flora moved again. "You can sleep with me and we can both play later," Fritzcat suggested, a smile evident in his voice.

Prussicat frowned. "That's. . . not fun," he said at last, his voice nearly a whisper.

"Suit yourself then," Fritzcat meowed back and was then silent.

Oh, Prussicat knew that ploy. Fritzcat would ignore him and wait for him to come because he knew that Prussicat hated to be ignored. Well he wasn't going to fall for it! Not this time! He could find other cats to play with. . . like Caustria.

He promptly banished the absolutely horrible idea out of his head and reluctantly stepped into the flower bed. His paws sunk into the dirt a little, making him feel as if he was about to be sucked underground. "I don't know why you like this place so much," he complained as he ducked under the flowers, feeling their leaves tug at his fur. "It's so stuffy and the pollen makes me sneeze." Right on cue he sneezed and his head smashed into a few flowers and coated his head in a fine layer of pollen.

"The pollen doesn't bother me," Fritzcat meowed immediately, showing that he had been waiting for Prussicat. "And I like how quiet and peaceful it is here. You're the only cat that bothers me."

"Hey!" Prussicat meowed, his ears dropping again. Was he really that annoying?

"Oh, I jest dear Prussicat," Fritzcat replied, turning to look at him. His fur was considerably thicker than Prussicat's and was mainly gray with white splotches. The most noticeable things about him were his bright blue eyes and the feather he kept tucked into his collar.

Prussicat sniffed and made his way over to Fritzcat, laying down beside him with an air of affronted dignity. The older tom just laughed and gave him a lick between his ears. "I have pollen on my head," Prussicat warned, rubbing some of the vile stuff from his nose.

"I can see that," Fritzcat purred in amusement. "Just sit still and I'll get it off for you." He went back to grooming his head, licking his ears, eyes, nose and anywhere else that he thought needed cleaning. It actually felt quite nice and Prussicat felt himself being lured to sleep by the gentle ministrations being given to him.

_Screw playing, _he thought to himself as he snuggled his head into Fritzcat's fluffy fur. _This is much better._

* * *

><p><strong>Demented: Oh how I absolutely love my dark!Gilbo Hell I love my dark stories in general so this was rather fun. I don't think I quite captured Prussia's absolute bloodlustinsanity though. I might come back to this.**  
><strong>Why does he lick blood from his sword? I have absolutely no idea. My headcanon is quirky like that.<strong>

**Lipstick:** **Oh boy, another one that I laughed my ass off at, but for different reasons. If this seems kinda cracky that is because that is is, because with a prompt like "lipstick" crack is the only way to go XD I highly, _highly_ enjoyed writing Gilbo in a French maid's dress because even I have my fetishes and his explanation as to why he was in it. I can honestly see the BFT doing this too. Poor Ludwig.**  
><strong><br>Heaven:** **Um, yeah. About this: if I get any flames or ragging on me for not being religious I will get angry. This is more or less my interpretation of how the afterlife goes, and it is quite confusing. My views are really a bit of an odd mix between what is seen in _The Lovely Bones, The Invisible_ (movie) and some of the books I read. (Actually, 'the tunnel', 'the red field', and 'Summerland' are all references to books that I've read)**  
><strong>And my brain dragged on this, as you can probably tell.<strong>  
><strong><br>Judgment:** **Oh my, more angst? XD I kinda have no idea where this story came from, this scene just popped into my head. This is kinda centered around the fact that even though the citizens and the leaders of the Allied powers called for Prussia's dissolution, I doubt that Arthur, Francis, Alfred, and Ivan as people would be all for it. I mean, Prussia may have been a militaristic, narcisst, annoying bastard, but they have known him for centuries. Think of it as a friend who has been your friend for years, even if they annoy you, you can't just let go of someone you've known for so long. Not to mention they all have been friends at one point (except Russia.)**  
><strong>Ironically, Russia was the only country that did not want Prussia to be dissolved despite their hatred of each other. XD<br>**

******Bully:** Protective!Prussia is rapidly becoming one of my new favorite things. It just tickles me so much to see him being all "rawr hands of mah little Fritz, bitch" XD Again, the first line is indeed a direct quote. I kinda facepalmed when I first and it and just thought "And you wonder why Fritz tried to run away."  
><strong><br>Wind:** I adore this one for...obvious reasons XD Another headcanon quirk: climbing trees. I based that one off of myself, since I used to do the exact same thing when I was a child. Unfortunately there aren't that many trees to climb anymore, because almost all of them are pine and the ones that I used to climb had all of their lower branches broken off C  
>Watching the sunset from a tree is actually quite fun. And while I think that Fritz will do a lot of things because Prussia asks him to, climbing down a tree without any light is not one of them. A smart thing too, because that is not fun at all.<br>**  
>Flowers:<strong> Nekotalia is one of the most adorable things ever, and last night I suddenly thought to myself "Why is there no Fritzcat? (ﾉ ಠ益ಠ)ﾉ " and went to correct this at once. I saw some art when I looked on this site so I based my appearance on that I mean, there was no way I could possibly make this prompt work with them as humans. It'd be too OOC.  
><strong>******And yes, Fritz is a fluffy cat IMO.****

**Lil' spoiler for y'all: I found all of the 7 Deadly Sins in my friend's prompt list, so the next chapter will have all seven of them ;)**


	5. Seven Deadly Sins

**A/N: Aaaand here we go! The seven fics I've been telling you about! 8D**

* * *

><p><strong>Pride<strong>

Standing on the crest of a hill, breathing in the smell of smoke and blood and battle, Prussia allowed a grin to twist his features. They had the Austrians on the run, and he had just watched his army perform that he could have wept with joyful pride. "I am _so _awesome," he said without the slightest trace of doubt. He was awesome and here was a display of his awesome power, right here in Hohenfriedberg.

Frederick lowered his spyglass a little to look at him. "Modesty is not one of your strong traits, I see," he said mildly. He had a small smile of his own that had not left his face ever since Gessler's dragoons had charged and nearly crushed the Austrian infantry.

Gilbert laughed. "Oh, hello there Pot. My name is Kettle," he replied, almost giddy with happiness. It felt as if he could spread his arms and fly right into the sky.

A chuckle answered him, but no denial came. "It is a marvelous feeling, watching your plans play out exactly the way you want them," Frederick said, glancing through his spyglass again. "The dragoons are performing wonderfully," he commented almost to himself.

"That's because they're Prussian," Gilbert said. How _else_could they be so awesome? The Prussian spirit in all of them made them the best warriors in the world. He hadn't felt so powerful since the time of the Teutonic Knights, when he had been the terror of Europe. For a while he thought that power had died. He was ashamed to admit that he thought that the strength, courage, and daring of his knights had faded when they had been disbanded, but now he saw that their power had not been destroyed, but had merely changed owners.

Frederick had been watching him, observing how his expression had changed. It had gone from ecstatic to something that he had trouble identifying at first. There was a soft, proud gaze that Prussia displayed to his troops, one that a father might wear as he saw his favorite son. Then suddenly Prussia turned that look on _him_. "Thank you," he said sincerely.

That took him by surprise. "For what?" he asked.

"For being awesome," Prussia said as if that was the only explanation he needed. He still had that wide smile on his face as, on a sudden impulse, he grabbed his king and pulled him into a tight hug.

Fritz was absolutely shocked. The Gilbert he knew did not act like this, not so openly affectionate and loving. But it didn't take him long to return the embrace. He felt Gilbert laughing against him. And then he heard something spoken in a language he could not even identify, much less understand. "What was that?" he asked.

Another laugh. "Something that my father was fond of saying when I was little," Prussia said. He nuzzled himself closer. "You know, when you were a child there were times when I wondered if you had been switched out with another child, like a changeling from the old tales. You didn't seem to have a drop of Prussia blood in you." He shook his head as if he still couldn't believe it. "And yet here you are, becoming a king that everyone will be proud to call their own."

A warmth blossomed in his chest when he heard those words. No one had ever been proud of him before. "Do you really think that?" he asked, for a moment sounding like a child desperately seeking approval.

Gilbert took a step back so he could look him in the eye. "I don't _think_anything," he replied in a serious tone. "I know how my people feel. Trust me, they will love you just as much as I do." Still buoyed by his euphoria, he leaned forward and kissed him, refusing to stop until Frederick pushed him away from lack of air.

**Sloth**

"Why in god's name would anyone get up at four in the morning?" The prince complained and tried to avoid Prussia's persistent prodding. "There is absolutely nothing to do!"

He sighed and prodded Fritz again, making sure to dig into the hollow of his shoulder. "There is plenty to do, if you find ways to occupy your time. Besides, it's the King's orders." He tried to pull Frederick into a sitting position and was more than a little surprised when Frederick jerked out of his grip and buried his face in the pillows. "Oh come on, you've been doing this since you were young. I shouldn't have to come in here and force you awake as if you're six-years old again."

"You don't have to," Fritz replied, his voice muffled by the pillow. He turned his head so he could be better heard. "If you leave me alone then I will be up by five, I swear."

"Sorry kid, you are in no position to negotiate," he said with a grin. "I also know that you don't want old Jupiter stomping in here, spitting fury and demanding to know why the hell you aren't up." He stood and slipped his hands under the mattress. "So now you get up or I flip this thing over."

Fritz shot up like a spring. "Don't!" he yelled, trying to shove him away.

He laughed and easily avoided the hands. "Much better. Quickly now—" he started to snap his fingers "—you don't want to make me shout this early in the morning."

"You won't," Frederick replied, rubbing his eyes. They were an angry red, which made his irises seem so much bluer. He moved sluggishly and kept shaking his head to keep himself awake.

That was a little odd, Fritz may have been a bastard to wake but once he was actually up he hardly showed any signs of fatigue. Gilbert wondered just how long he had stayed up last night. . . a positively wicked thought came to him just then, making him grin like a naughty child. He watched his prince carefully and noticing him grimacing whenever he move too quickly or twisted in a certain way, as if certain muscles deep inside of him were quite _sore_.

Oh this was too perfect.

He leaned against the bedpost as he watched Frederick stand up. Predictably he winced and very nearly put his hand to his back until he realized that Prussia was watching him. "So," the soldier said, leaning forward and tasting victory. "Has someone been keeping you up at night?"

To his credit Frederick did not jump or stutter or even blush. His face went as blank as a fresh sheet of parchment paper. "No," he said in a voice that was equally blank. _Too_blank, in Prussia's opinion.

He sauntered over to Frederick and saw a trace of unease flicker across his eyes. "Are you sure?" he asked solicitously. "It looks to me as if you're in a bit of pain. Especially right here." Without warning he dug two fingers into his tailbone, eliciting a small yelp and the jump he had been looking for. "Because you see, I know that only very few things can hurt you in that particular region." He crossed his arms and went for the kill. "I wonder, at what time did von Katte return to his quarters last night?" His grin would have made the devil envious.

Fritz grew pale. "Gilbert, don't—" he began to plead.

"Kesesese~!" Gilbert had to laugh at his stricken face. "Relax, I'm not gonna tell anyone. Be glad it was me who woke you up today, or else this would be all over the palace in a few hours." He took Frederick by the arm and pulled him forward, forcing him to stumble after him or fall onto the floor. He ignored Fritz's gasps of pain and went on, "Now come on, we gotta walk that soreness out of your muscles. Sitting around all day won't do a whit of good."

"Gilbert—" the prince whined.

"Ah, ah, nope. Get dressed and I'll show you how to get rid of that pain." As Frederick slipped into his clothes, wincing every time he bent over, he commented, "Maybe next time you'll make _him_ bottom and show him how _it _feels."

"Gilbert!" Frederick yelled, blushing up to his hairline.

He tried not to laugh, since he could see the other servants appearing. However, he was going to milk this for as long as possible. Fritz was not going to hear the end of this for quite some time.

**Wrath**  
><em><br>"Cracked right through his skull, Your Majesty. We could not do a thing even if we were in the very same room when it occurred."_

_"He was already dead when he was brought in, so there is not much we can do anyways."_

_"Oh, dearest Prussia—"_

_"Do not shed your tears yet, Wilhelmine. Sirs, I demand that you treat this man's injuries. If you cannot even do that then tend to your princess, her father abused her so fiercely that she was senseless for many minutes. We had to use smelling salts to revive her."_

_"Certainly, my Queen. If the princess could sit here. . . "_

_"But didn't Gilbert always say that he couldn't die…"_

Ow. Ow ow ow ow. Oh sweet holy _gods _he hurt. He wasn't even moving and he could feel every nerve afire with pain. Coming back to life always hurt like a bitch. A soul did not like being forced back into its body. But it wasn't just his resurrection that made him hurt; while his mind was as slow as molasses in catching up with what happened, he had a pretty good, if vague, idea of what had happened to him. Waking up and hearing people talk about his injuries was nothing new, and he was certain that if he moved then he would be in a lot more pain than he already was.

Curiosity drove him on, however. He let his eyes slide open and he shut them almost immediately as bright light drove itself through them and sliced into his brain. Why did he do that? That was so stupid and now there were red spots coiling around the darkness behind his eyelids. The redness pulsed sickeningly and increased his headache with every beat.

"Gilbert?" he heard someone say. "I think I just saw his eyes move!"

He heard a few gasps and everything was suddenly very silent. It was unnerving and he could only hear a ringing in his ears that would not go away. Then he heard, very quietly: "Prussia?"

Yes, that was his name. He wanted to turn his head towards the voice, but judging from the pain in his head he was afraid that his skull would fall to pieces if he moved. He opened his eyes again and thankfully someone's silhouette was blocking out most of the light. He ran his tongue along his mouth, tasting blood and feeling for loose teeth. When he was certain that he could talk without fear of his jaw falling off, he managed to croak out a greeting. "Hello, Queen Sophia," he said, his voice wet and gurgling from the blood in his throat. His vision swam dangerously but righted itself after a few moments. "Might I ask where I am?" He couldn't see very well and the blurry furniture in the room gave him no clue as to his location.

The queen leaned a little closer. "You are in the royal surgeon's quarters Gilbert," she said quietly, her voice trembling a little. "Lie still, you've been badly hurt."

He tried to smile, but even that was painful. "I can see that," he murmured, barely able to talk any louder. "How did I get here?" Obviously he had been injured, but exactly how was escaping his grasp.

He could sense the atmosphere in the room change. "You don't remember?" Sophia Dorothea whispered.

Why did everyone look so tense? He tried to cast his memory back to before he was killed, but all he remembered were white and red spots. "Forgive me," he said, "but my mind is still quite muddled. Coming back to life does that to you. I cannot recall a thing."

At first he did not get an answer. Sophia Dorothea beckoned one of the surgeons over impatiently and once more ordered him to treat his injuries. Gilbert winced at every little touch on his skin, but he did not complain. "I was in the King's apartments. He had just returned from his trip and he told me that F-Frederick was dead." She paused to swallow the lump in her throat and continued steadily. "He demanded the chest of letters that you helped us burn and then forge, and he took it and hid it. When he returned we tried to mollify him, but the moment he saw Wilhelmine he became enraged and beat her until she fell to the floor, unconscious. He still tried to get to her, but we—" she waved her hand and Prussia only then realized that the entire royal family minus the King was in the room "—formed a circle around her and refused to let him pass. And then you came running in because you heard all of the screaming. . . Do you remember that much, Gilbert?"

His head hurt when he tried to think too hard, but his health was starting to pick back up. He could feel his more minor injuries healing and the disconcerting feeling of his bones knitting themselves back together. Even now the blood on his head had already stopped flowing. "Vaguely," he answered, his throat still sore. Something had definitely happened to it. "I remember arguing with the King about something, gods know what."

"You stepped between him and us," Sophia Dorothea told him. "You were telling him that Wilhelmine could not have had any possible idea about what Frederick was going to do, even though we all know you had no inkling of it. The King struck you across the face—" that explained why half of his face was throbbing "—and came towards us again. He accused Wilhelmine, myself, and you of being part of a plot to overthrow him and place Frederick on the throne." She sounded miserable as she said this, knowing how explosive her husband's paranoia made him.

The details around him were sharpening and he could clearly see that his queen had been weeping. Her eyes were still bright from unshed tears. "I seem to recollect him telling me I was being unloyal to or something of that manner." What were his exact words?

"Everyone knows that my brother has always been your favorite, Gilbert," Wilhelmine suddenly spoke up. She sounded unnaturally quiet. "Father always suspected that you were more loyal to Frederick rather than him."

He would have snorted, if his head had not been clogged with blood. "I would have too, if Fritz was king instead of him." One of the physicians gasped and he flinched as a bandage scraped across his head.

Sophia Dorothea sighed. "And that's what got you into this mess that you are in right now. When he paused for breath you said: 'My King, there is no such plot that you speak of. However, if there was such one then I would indeed join it, because no one would mourn your passing.'" She shook her head and gripped one of his hands tightly in both of her own. It was probably the only place in his entire body where he did not hurt. "Why in God's name did you say that to him, Gilbert? You had to have known what he would do to you."

Ah yes, now he remembered. He had known full well what would happen, and he had not been the least surprised when Frederick William had lost whatever sanity he had been holding onto and broke his knee with the cane. Ironically, Gilbert had been planning to defend himself for once, but his broken knee had put him on the ground and at his King's mercy. He could not recall exact details, but he did remember a boot trampling on his throat and the cane smashing his ribs, arms, head, and whatever else Frederick William could reach. Thankfully it had not lasted very long, because a particularly hard blow to his head had killed him in an instant. "I was not about to let him touch Wilhelmine," he growled out, his anger slowly flickering to the surface. "Already I regret not being able to save Frederick from his father's wrath, but I could never have forgiven myself if I let my princess suffer as well." He tried to sit up and was immediately assailed with "Sit down"s and "What are you doing" and "Stop"s. Hands grabbed his shoulders and chest and arms and gently pushed him back down.

"Please Gilbert, you are hurt worse than you think," Wilhelmine said, standing up shakily. The surgeons tried to help her back into her chair and she waved them off, which Gilbert thought was rather unfair. "Father still continued to hit you, even after you. . . He refused to stop until he broke his cane right in half."

His eyebrows went up. "He broke his cane?" He had always joked that one day it would break from all of the beatings it had given, but he never thought that it would actually happen.

The queen nodded. "It snapped and became useless. The King just stood there for a few moments in a dumb sort of shock, then he threw the pieces away and stomped off, proclaiming that he was going to find a new one."

Prussia repressed a shudder. He hoped at least that Frederick William had burned out most of his anger on him. "Let me up," he pleaded, trying to rise again. His head was no longer spinning and he could take a breath without it hurting. "I need to speak up with him."

He heard gasps. "Are you mad?" Sophia Dorothea asked, placing her hand on his arm. "He will not listen, especially not to you. He wants blood, Prussia, no matter whose blood it is."

"Then it is better that it is my blood than Frederick's or Wilhelmine's," he retorted, sitting on his elbows. "I can heal, my queen, they cannot. We need to convince him to spare your son."

"Gilbert—" she broke off as footsteps thundered outside of the room and an unmistakable voice rose in agitation. In a moment Prussia was sliding to his feet (thankfully the world tilted only a little) and making his way to the door, despite the objections he heard behind him. Someone grabbed him from behind and threw him into a chair just as the door opened to reveal the King.

**Envy**

Prussia did not hate him because of how he looked. His dress may have been silly in some regards, since Prussia had never acquired a taste for wigs, but it was tolerable. He didn't hate him because he spoke out against absolute rule, even though that disrupted the perfect order and discipline that Prussia prized so much. He didn't hate him because he hated the church, but then again Prussia had fallen out of his religious fervor a long time ago.

And yet Prussia _loathed _that man with every fiber of his being.

He was educated, well-read, creative, and cultured, everything that Prussia was not. It was also how he acted that made the nation hate him. He was a flatterer plain and simple. Normally that wasn't a bad thing, since everyone was one at some point in their life. But it was _who_he was flattering with his praises and education and how his subject responded to it that stirred his anger.

He might have taken it better if the man didn't make Frederick so damn happy.

"Another letter almost as soon as I send one," Fritz would say, holding up a paper covered in elegant French script. "Voltaire must write as fast as a man can speak in order to spew them so quickly."

Prussia would never reply, knowing that whatever he said would be very rude and uncalled for. Thankfully Frederick no longer showed him the letters so he could read them. Seeing such phrases as "a Marcus Aurelis" , "Apollo" , "Alexander" , and "Berlin under your auspices will become an Athens of Germany" made him want to be sick. Frederick lapped up the compliments eagerly and that made him see red because _he_ was supposed to make his Fritz happy and no one else. Yet here was this man, who was his exact opposite, who was able to please his King almost as much as he could and the only way they could communicate was through letters—just simple words on paper. All of that silver-tongued wit and poetry was something that Prussia didn't have, but sometimes, in his most private and vulnerable moments, he wished that he did have those qualities so he could make his King even happier than he already was. What made it all even worse was the knowledge that he hated Voltaire because he was jealous of him, and someone as awesome as himself should not be jealous of _anyone_, especially a Frenchman! On one hand his blood boiled at having such a ridiculous and idiotic weakness, yet at the same time that want, that longing to have something that was not his and probably never would be still ate away at him inch by inch. Every time that man was mentioned that little beast opened up its jaws and took a big, juicy bite out of his patience and self-control.

And Frederick, despite being such a shrewd and observing individual, seemed completely oblivious to his lover's hatred of the poet and why he hated him; or if he did know it, he ignored it completely. Sometimes Prussia wanted to smash his head into the walls from sheer frustration, but that would mean that they would have to spend hundreds of thalers repairing them. Not to mention that he would have to explain just _why_he was beating his heading into walls and that meant that he would have to have a conversation centered around Voltaire that would last longer than a minute. He might have some patience regarding that man, but not a lot. But, he could counsel himself with the fact that Voltaire was hundreds of miles away, in Paris, and not actually living with them in Sanssouci and therefore he didn't have to deal with him every day.

Even that changed.

He was furious when he first found out and Frederick probably had the first hint of what was troubling him. Not that he could put two and two together though. He simply assumed that it was Prussia's dislike of the French and poets in general and he missed the bigger picture completely. Gilbert had sulked—yes, he will admit to sulking—around the palace for days afterward and dreamed hundreds of ways to send that man back to France as quickly as possible. Most of them involved unnecessary violence and would have surely brought Fritz's anger down on him. While he hated that man, he hated seeing his love unhappy even more.

Meeting him was the worst. They had already met before, but with the knowledge that Voltaire would actually _stay_ this time had Frederick smiling like Voltaire had just made his whole damn life complete by walking into his palace. Gilbert did not greet the Frenchman, and he felt his heart being torn in two when he saw Frederick's smile. He used to smile that way only for him. He never thought his jealousy or hatred could possibly increase, but it did. He quickly left because he knew that if he had to watch any longer then he would end up strangling their newest guest right in front of everyone. Again he sulked and snapped at anyone that so much as stared at him for too long. Not that Fritz noticed. He was too busy spending time with _that man_.

The only respite that he had was that Voltaire tended to skip the afternoon lunches. He had Fritz and all of his generals to himself then. It was like a sip of water being given to a parched man in a desert. Those lunches probably kept him from going insane. However, his patience was being chipped away by the constant praising and philosophical talk, which he now had to listen to in person instead of reading them in letters. Unlike the letters he simply could not turn off his ears and ignore what was being said. Sometimes he wished that Voltaire was also the name of an object, that way he could take it and beat that man with it. That would show him to flaunt that little tongue of his. But no, he had to be good. He wanted Frederick to be happy, so he reluctantly kept himself in check. At least it was just friendship and nothing closer.

Then one day he learned that Voltaire had told one of his friends that he had been charmed by the King of Prussia's "seductive blue eyes."

. . . Alright, that was it. That man was _dead._

**Lust**

Frederick buried his face in his pillow and finally let out the frustrated scream that had been stuck in his throat for the past few hours. He gripped his bedsheets and thought of tearing them, but in all honesty that would not do a single thing to help him. Why had this happened to him? What in the world had he done to deserve this? Alright he was no saint, he knew that quite well, but this was too much even for him. He had just slipped out of one problem and had fallen straight into another; it was as if he endeavored to find the deepest holes in his life and jump right into them.

At a first glance it did not seem so bad. Everyone came down with the affliction that he had, but he was cursed with his situation being so much worse. If it were some low foot soldier or a pretty serving maid then it would not have mattered one bit. But it had to be his _country_of all the people in the world! One day he would become king and rule over him, and here he was trapped by his own selfish desires. No matter how hard he tried, he could never erase his sinful thoughts from his head. What was worse was that he did not entirely want to.

It was hard pinpointing the exact time he wanted to, well, fuck his nation senseless. It had been a gradual and subtle process. Once he had his freedom from Küstrin he started to notice little things that had not seemed so important in the past. The way Prussia moved, that proud way he held his head, the shape of his face, the timber of his voice, the angles and planes of his lean body. . . all at once he had been struck with a sudden craving, a _desire_, so powerful that at first he had absolutely no idea what to do. He had floundered for a bit, staggering against the implication that he wanted _Gilbert_, the man he had known ever since he had been a child. It made his mouth dry and his heart race, and not in an unpleasant way.  
><em><br>God, you are such an idiot!_ He berated himself more than once. _First Katte, and now Gilbert? When will you pick someone who will not get you into trouble?_ He did not think that even he and Katte had been this complicated. Katte was a soldier, Prussia an immortal nation who he one day had to rule, and how was he supposed to do that when he could barely stand to be in the same room as him?  
><em><br>Well,_ a small part of him said, _there is an entirely_ different _way you can rule him._

And there it was, the tightening in his abdomen that sent shivers down his spine. He could hardly work because the albino's face kept popping up in his thoughts. Sometimes he could see it better than he could see his own hands. He could see that face contorting in ecstasy and absently wondered what sort of sounds he would make. Would Gilbert moan, or would he beg? Just thinking about it made him shake. What would it feel like to touch him? What was hidden underneath that concealing uniform? His imagination was quite out of control and the different scenarios, sounds, and visions that his mind conjured had kept him awake for more than one night.

This was so sordid and detestable. He dared not let a single scrap of his thoughts show.

Prussia was not an idiot, however. He knew when something was up. "So, who's the lady this time?" he asked one day when Fritz had been caught in a particularly vivid daydream. "Or man, whichever you prefer this time around." His grin was sharp and teasing and he loomed over Frederick as he leaned over the back of his chair.

Fritz had not been expecting the abruptness or the bluntness of the question, and he jumped. "What?" he asked dumbly.

An amused chuckle answered him; it was deep and right above his ear and it turned his bones to sponge. He felt his chair creak as Prussia leaned further down. "You're mooning again," the country whispered into his ear. "I can see it. Just like when you were chasing after Katte, but this is something fierce." The smile in his voice was obvious.

He could feel the warm breaths puffing against his ear and neck, distracting him the most marvelous way. "I do _not _moon," he said indignantly. How he managed to respond in such an even voice was beyond him.

Prussia laughed and lord what a sound it was! It made his spine tingle as if warm water had been poured down his back and when Prussia's hand came down on his shoulder he felt his breath stop for a moment. "Oh, you do," Prussia said, rubbing his shoulder gently, although not in the way that he wished he would. "I saw you mooning after von Katte like a schoolboy and I see you mooning now. You see, when you're after someone for a quick fuck you step in and take what you want. You suck them dry and throw the husk away like an orange." Gilbert moved until he was down on one knee and resting his chin on Frederick's other shoulder. At one point in time it would have been comforting, but now it was anything but that. "But when you _like _someone, when you want them to stick around, you hesitate. You step much more carefully and since you can't immediately have what you desire, you daydream."

His words registered very distantly in the prince's brain. Most of his mind was busy screaming, _Stop_ breathing _in my_ ear _can't you see that I am just two seconds away from bending you over this desk and—_

"Fine then, don't tell me," Gilbert huffed, bringing him back to the present like a dog being tugged by a leash. "I'll find out anyway." He stood up and Fritz's eye was drawn to the way his thighs rippled under his breeches. His pants suddenly felt very tight and he quickly crossed his legs. Gilbert, still oblivious, turned and made his way towards the door. Fritz chanced a glance down and—damn. That stupid coat Gilbert always wore hid his ass completely, giving only a teasing outline. The country paused, as if sensing the stare, and then half-turned. He craned his head around and a small, distant part of Frederick wondered why no one ever wrote poetry about necks; they were so gracefully curved and at the same time there were so many little details such as the muscles that traveled into the collar of his cravat and the almost invisible vein that pulsed right beside it. He could have written hundreds of things about them. "You can't hide something from me for long," Gilbert promised with a cheeky grin and finally headed out. Frederick had completely forgotten what he was talking about.

"Idiot," he sighed when he was certain that he was alone. "Stupid, foolish, _idiot_." His last words came out almost as a growl and he put his head in his hands. The letter he had been writing blurred in front of him and he couldn't comprehend the words to save his life. His work was now officially ruined, he couldn't get a single thing done when he had those words and that smile and that _touch _fresh in his mind. He rubbed his shoulder lightly and sighed again because he knew that he wasn't really putting up much of a fight, no matter how much he wanted to.

He tried to distract himself with other things, but horse riding was dull and the gardens he was so fond of seemed leeched of all color. For once he was not much of a conversationalist and his befuddled mind could not keep up with the talk of physics and philosophy anyway. He couldn't even play his flute. Not out of lack of trying, but his mind was so focused on a certain someone that his fingers would tangle up and the notes he was trying to play would come out as a jumbled mess. That hurt him more than anything, because his dear _principessa _had always provided him a refuge from the world and made him forget his troubles, however briefly. Now not even she could touch this problem.

Sleep evaded him. Every time he lay in his bed and closed his eyes his fantasies came rushing to him gleefully. The only way he ever fell asleep was if he exhausted himself so thoroughly that he barely had any strength to think once he hit the mattress. Many times he lay awake in the darkness, heart pounding, tormented by the empty space beside him and how dearly he wished for a certain albino to be filling it. It was only during times like these he could indulge himself. His face burned with shame as he touched himself, but his body responded so eagerly to his ministrations that he soon forgot himself completely. He always came quickly, but he felt so pleasure as his body shook with his orgasm and he spilled himself onto the sheets. Gilbert was still not with him and whatever brief relief he had was a lie, a ghost of the fulfillment he wanted. Just like a mirage in a desert.

Exhausted and near-sick with his delusions, Frederick wiped his hand on the covers and wondered if this is what going mad felt like.

**Gluttony**

"Hmmm, this is delicious," Prussia murmured contemplatively as he swirled his wine in his glass. It was a deep, rich red that matched his eyes when held up to the light.

"The finest from Hungary," Frederick responded with a smile, sipping his own drink. He had acquired a taste for it in Silesia and always had a bottle in his cellars, not matter how expensive it  
>was.<p>

Prussia frowned at the mention of Hungary, but did not say anything. He stared at his wine for a few moments, then tipped his glass back and drained the whole thing within a few moments. "More please," he said politely, hiding a grin as he set his glass back down.

Frederick tried not to roll his eyes at his nation's manners (or lack thereof) and wordlessly uncorked the bottle. Thankfully they were alone, or else he would be dying of embarrassment. "Don't drink it all now," he warned as he poured it. "It will go to your head. You're supposed to enjoy it."

Gilbert laughed and reclaimed his glass. "I drink you out of your cellars before you'll see me drunk," he said. "I have a very high tolerance. Besides, you've had more than I have." Fritz shot him an exasperated look but did not reply, meaning that he had won this round. He smiled in amusement and speared a portion of cake and popped it in his mouth. While private dinners were delightful to him, it was the dessert course that was his favorite. The sweet cakes and pies with their chocolate sauce and cream made his toes curl and made the wine taste sweeter. If it was possible to live off of such pleasures as these then he would have done it a long time ago.

He felt eyes on him and looked up to see Frederick watching him. "What?" he demanded.

"Nothing," the king said with a smile, slowly taking a bite of his own cake. His gaze never wavered and never blinked, which made Gilbert more uncomfortable by the second. It felt as if those eyes were boring right through his skin and flesh and reading his very soul. "I'm just amazed," Frederick said after a long silence, hiding his laughter when he saw Prussia slump in relief. He knew how uneasy he could make people just by looking at them and he often took advantage of it. "You have eaten almost an entire cake by yourself and yet you attack your food as if you just returned from a campaign. One has to wonder where all of that food goes."

Prussia laughed that odd "Kesesese~" laugh that always gave Frederick goosebumps. "Of course I can eat a lot of food, I'm awesome like that!" He reached for another piece as he spoke." "Besides, it would be shameful to waste all of this." He ate nearly a third of it in one bite and leaned back in his chair, looking as content as a cat in a sunbeam.

A scolding was on the tip of Frederick's tongue and he opened his mouth to tell his nation to sit up straight and not in such an improper manner, but his words died in his throat. The candlelight cast a soft glow on Gilbert's blissful face, making him look absolutely gorgeous. It would be a shame to waste such a sight, like Gilbert had just said. He rested his head on his fist and abruptly felt a wave of dizziness from the movement. He reached for his wineglass and to his shock found it empty; he could have sworn he had more.

"Tsk, you can't let your glass stay empty for long," Prussia said, noticing his problem. He quickly reached over and grabbed the wine bottle and poured some more of the blood red liquid into his cup. "Drink up, it might go bad after a while." Frederick wondered what he was grinning so widely about.

For a moment he questioned whether or not it was wise to drink so much, since he had only had. . . actually he couldn't remember how many glasses he had. He knew that should have bothered him but it did not. Oh well, it wasn't like he had to entertain guests or anything of the sort, so he was allowed to be less than clearheaded. "Aren't indulgences such as these looked down upon?" he mused rhetorically, sipping his drink.

"If either of us was religious then we might have reason to worry," Gilbert laughed. He drew his finger around the chocolate sauce left on his plate and licked it. "However, seeing as we are not, we can indulge and sin to our hearts' content." He eyed the rest of the dishes speculatively, which were merely more wine, chocolate, and cream. The sweetest sins of mankind, and no more food to grace them with. "Finish your wine and we'll get rid of this extra stuff," he said, dipping his finger in a bowl of cream and sucking on it.

Frederick downed nearly half of his wine in one swallow and almost burned his throat. "How do you plan to do that?" he coughed.

Gilbert's grin stretched from ear to ear. "I have ways," was his only answer.

**Greed**

It was very cold, despite the layers of blankets draped over him and the body snuggled against his. Frederick wondered if there was a draft somewhere. Not likely, since the windows were closed, but he had no explanation for the chill that was raising the hairs along his arms and neck. It seemed to come from inside him, which was absolutely absurd because the body was always warm on the inside. He frowned a little and pulled the blankets up until they reached his neck.

The man next to him sighed at the movement, drawing his attention downwards. He was a young infantryman with a rather attractive face, including a pair of gorgeous green eyes. It was rather odd, he mused, that such a brash individual could have such fine features, one would almost call them "pretty." Even now with the way the man was snuggling closer to him for warmth was adorable, the way he acted reminded him a lot of Gi—

There was that chill again, although stronger by twofold. Frederick scowled into the darkness as if it was the culprit of his fluctuating temperature. This was ridiculous, he couldn't be feeling _guilt_, could he? He never had before, so why should he now?  
><em><br>Because you've never fought before,_ a dark, treacherous little voice in his head whispered. It only came to him in the darkest hours, when he was pondering over more dismal thoughts. _This was never an issue until just recently. Think about what your_ dear _Gilbert said to you earlier. What do you think would happen if he saw you now, all cuddled up with your newest toy for the night?_

His heart thudded painfully against his ribcage and ice prickled down his spine. He did not want to think about what would happen, because it would be terrible. There was another sigh, coming from his "toy," whose name he suddenly couldn't remember. The grip around his arm tightened and he wanted to shove it away, but at the same time he did not want to wake the sleeper. Well, at least he wasn't hugging him back or anything, it was all one-sided.  
><em><br>And that means_ what, _exactly?_ the voice asked him. _You're letting him do it, so you aren't entirely unwilling._

He dearly wished that voice would be quiet. It was bringing forth all of the things he wanted to repress. All of the words he wished he hadn't said.  
><em><br>"Another one?" Gilbert demanded as he saw a figure leaving discreetly through the gardens. "Didn't you already have someone a few weeks ago?"_

_Frederick turned his eyes away from the man as soon as he was certain that he wouldn't be caught. "Yes, but you can't keep them for very long," he answered mildly. "Too many times together and they'll start to think that they're something special." He turned back around as he said this, and as a result he missed Prussia's stricken look._

Alright, that was in bad taste, he will admit to that. He had absolutely no intention to wound Prussia with those words, but he had. Oh, his dearest was far too sensitive sometimes. On the other hand. . .  
><em><br>"I don't see why you're so upset," he said, not even looking up from his writing._

_Prussia leaned over the desk, his hands gripping the edges so tightly that Frederick could see the veins in his knuckles. "Don't play dumb with me," he growled in such a dangerous tone that __Frederick looked up in alarm. "You know _exactly _why I'm upset." He was trembling all over and his eyes were hard._

_He swallowed and carefully set his pen down. "I know why," he said, "but I don't know why you take it so harshly—"_

_"So I should just act slightly annoyed when my lover runs around with other men like some dockside whore?" Prussia yelled, unable to restrain himself._

_In an instant he was on his feet and glaring at his nation with real anger. He was rather irritated that he was shorter than Prussia, because he had to look up to see his face. "Don't you dare speak to me in such a manner," he said, fisting his hands at his sides._

_"I will say what I want to say, even—"_

_"Enough!" Fritz shouted, cutting right through his sentence. His own eyes were icy and sharp as broken glass. "Do you own me now? Am I your slave, not even allowed to do as I please? Should I be chained to your side like a dog?"_

_Gilbert's eyes narrowed. "I would like it if the 'servant of the state' would not treat his state like a bauble that he can take out and play with whenever he desires."_

_He felt his anger rising like a wave. "So I should even give away my freedom for—"_

_"I give you everything!" Gilbert exploded, smashing his fist against the table hard and upending two inkwells. "All I ask for is some equality in that matter!"_

He bit his lip, still seeing Prussia's face in the darkness. He remembered his expression as he said that, as if he was tearing the words right from his soul. Deep down, Frederick knew that he was right. But the problem was that neither of them liked it when they were wrong, so instead of admitting their faults they turned around and tried to hurt the other. Their arguments played over in his head, each word another sharp needle of pain driven right into his heart. He hated how Gilbert could make him feel guilty. He had never cared for his little flings until Prussia opened his mouth and spilled out the words that struck him to his core.  
><em><br>"I give you everything I am, and you still want more!" Prussia cried, his eyes bright with tears he refused to shed. "Am I just not good enough to satisfy you?"_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Pride:** No, they're not _quite_ sinning (except for Prussia a little) and somehow I turned it into fluff at the end xD I guess it's because I don't really see Pride as much of a sin (Vanity yes, but Pride and Vanity are slightly different from each other IMO). However I really did like this, because of the fluff and very mild angst in there.  
><strong><br>Sloth:** Pffft oh dear gods I loved this. It was a little gift for GothicDancer, who once requested something about von Katte. So here you go dear, he might not have appeared, but I hope the wonderful not-so-subtle implications pleased you. He will appear in other stories, pinkie promise ^w^ My headcanon says that Prussia wasn't really jealous of Katte, like some people believe, but he loved to tease Fritz about it.  
><strong><br>Wrath:** *pouts* I had this written out in a completely different way, but after reading some of Wilhelmine's memoirs I was horrified but my historical inaccuracy and scrapped the whole thing and rewrote it. The idea was the same, cause I can seriously see this happening. I really hope I didn't screw up the characters, but I have wanted to write something with Sophia Dorothea and Wilhelmine for a while now.  
>Oh, and major Prussia whumpage XD Major major whumpage XD I do adore it so. (omgi'msuchasadist)<br>**  
>Envy:<strong> Ugh, this prompt was so hard to nail down. Mainly because I doubt that Frederick and Prussia could be envious of anyone, because nether of them were very modest to begin with. I figured that the ONLY thing that Prussia could ever be envious of was Voltaire. However my headcanon says that Gilbert never really "envied" him, but was just hugely jealous (there is a slight different to the two, just like pride and vanity) But for the sake of the prompt I ramped it up to eleven and made Prussia murderously envious of the man he hated the most XD You can also see some of my headcanon with the way Prussia always refers to him as "that man." He hates to even say his name, so most of the time it's just "that man," a lot like Maria Theresa's "that evil man in Sanssocui." XDD  
>Oh and the "seductive blue eyes" thing wasn't what Voltaire said word for word. It was he "had been seduced by the king's charming blue eyes" but I thought that seductive blue eyes sounded so much funnier XD<br>I'm not quite sure if Prussia would actually beat Voltaire to death. He certainly would want to, but I'm don't know if he'd actually do it. Fickle headcanon is what I have.  
><strong><br>Lust:** One of my favorite ones, for obvious reasons XD I decided to spare Prussia for a while and torture Fritz instead D This comes largely from my headcanon as well. If you noticed that there doesn't seem to be a lot of "love" regarding Frederick's thoughts, that's because there isn't. For some reason my headcanon thinks that at first Frederick just had a raging hormonal crush on Gilbert and his desire was just purely physical, and then he fell in love with him later. He still has that chidlike/friendship love for his nation, which is why he believes that his thoughts or so wrong. He'll get over it later though.  
>Oh and for the <em>principessa<em> thing, I was reading some of Wilhelmine's memoirs the other day and I came across a passage where it said that Fritz had once named his flute his _principessa_. In retaliation she named her lute her _principe_ and said that it competed for his affection. I thought that it was absolutely friggin adorable. XD  
><strong><br>Gluttony:** This story always makes me hungry XD It's largely inspired by a conversation that one of my friends and I had on DA. It involved wine, melted chocolate, cream, candlelight, and the flute and what happened afterwards ;) Sadly the flute is missing, but it's probably around somewhere. I liked this story as well because they are both the sinners, for a change, Gilbert with his food and Fritz with his wine.  
><strong><br>Greed:** Oh ouch. Ouchouchmy_heart._ I felt really bad when writing the end to this, because I just want to hug Prussia and tell him the Fritz still loves him. I'm sure that anyone who's ever read up extensively on Fritz would know that he had quite a few lovers, even though they didn't last very long. I feel that Prussia would have been very hurt by these, and of course who wouldn't? Frederick doesn't think they're much of a big deal because he sees these different people as lovers, but they are not the one that he _loves,_ if that makes any sort of sense.  
>Angst really ramped up on this one XD I just decided to pull out the most painful things Prussia could say and threw them out there. The Greed may not be the type you expected, since I already covered one type of Greed in Gluttony and Fritz doesn't really need money, since he's king and therefore filthy rich.<br>No, the random dude is not an OC, just a random dude. **


	6. Seasons of Our Love

**A/N: With today being Fritz/Prussia Day, I have decided to write something to celebrate. These are not a part of my pormpt list, so you cant hink of them as an extra gift ;)**

**Warning: SAP. OH GODS THE SAAAAP.**

* * *

><p><strong>Spring<strong>

Spring was often depicted as a wonderful and happy time of the year, when the hard vicelike grip of winter loosened and the flowers began to bloom again and the birds were starting to sing. The days were warmer and longer and brighter, filled with the promise of a fresh start to the year. People smiled to each other and were generally in better spirits, which was natural considering that the snow and cold had finally gone. Fritz certainly loved it because it meant that he could return to his dear Sanssouci and spend time among his beloved gardens that he enjoyed so much.

Prussia hated it with a passion.

And there was only one reason that he hated it. It seemed that when the earth shifted, everyone went absolutely nuts. There was more energy in the people and the land, as if all throughout the winter they had been storing up their energy so they could release it all in one explosive burst when springtime came around. He could feel the happiness of his people and sense the farms and grasses growing as if in a race. It felt awesome, like being reborn, but at the same time it gave him the most debilitating migraines he could ever imagine. He couldn't count the amount of times he had been forced to simply lay on a couch all day with a cold cloth over his forehead, shivering as spasms of pain shot up and down his body like lightning.

It happened every year, but it was never something he could just "get used to," as the saying went. How the hell were you supposed to "get used to" the feeling of a red-hot knife slowly impaling itself through your temple? Not that anyone ever told him that, because they feared his reaction, but he was well aware of the odd (and sometimes resentful) looks that he got from others. As if they were asking why he was just lazing about when there was work to do. Most of the time however he was quite alone, stuck lying down with only Gilbird to keep him company as an unholy pain ripped apart his head bit by bit.

Frederick never said anything about his migraines. He just gave him the occasional puzzled look, mainly because he wondered how in the world a simple headache could keep his nation down. Nonetheless he let Gilbert lie on his couch and gave the albino anything he requested. "Just get some rest," he murmured quietly, with a gentle smile. "It will pass eventually."

On that particular day Prussia didn't even have the strength to nod his head in reply, and just kept his arm thrown over his eyes to block any light. He felt a kiss on his cheek and footsteps leaving, and then he was all alone. It hurt, but he knew that as his king Fritz was constantly busy and he couldn't put off his work even if he wanted to. The nation simply swallowed the lump in his throat and pressed his face into the back of the couch.

Hours passed, with the occasional footsteps coming and going, and he felt evening draw near without even opening his eyes. He slept in short fits, the pain in his head usually too great to allow him to drift off. Suddenly, he felt the hairs of his neck rise, and he lifted his arm up a tiny fraction to squint at the room. It seemed unusually dark for the time (the clock had chimed 5 o' clock not too long ago, driving another nail of pain through his eyes with each clang) and he could sense his people becoming quieter. He wondered why, and then he was answered when an earsplitting crash of thunder broke the silence and caused him to scream as white spots of pain flashed across his vision. Was there no merciful god in the universe?

_Another damn spring storm,_ he thought fuzzily to himself, in a murderous humor as rain began to pound the windows. _Is there not one moment when a man can get a bit of peace?_

As if to mock him further, the doors swung open to spill light and noise in from the outer halls, making him whimper and cringe in pain. In came Frederick, looking only slightly annoyed with the weather, shooing servants away with a dismissive gesture. They scurried about, arms loaded with firewood, and started to build up the fireplace. Little did they know that every dull _clunk _of a log was like Thor's almighty hammer coming down upon his brain and each scrape was nails on a chalkboard. It didn't take them very long to get a fire started, and then they bowed and left.

He heard Fritz's footsteps pacing the room, but on their third turn they stopped abruptly. "Gilbert?" the shocked voice of his king asked, as if surprised to still find him there.

He was so shocked at being noticed that he immediately answered: "Yeah?" He winced as he heard his own voice claw its way out of his throat. It vibrated through his skull and sent little sparks of agony dancing across his nerves.

There was a pause. "Are you still. . . feeling unwell?" Frederick asked, lowering his voice some.

He raised his arm a little so he could see his king. "Y-Yeah, a little bit." Hah. A little bit. The understatement of the century. A "little bit" didn't even cover a tenth of what he was feeling, it was a drop in an ocean. A bitter smile crossed his face, but he felt his lips trembling from the exertion.

Frederick watched him for a few moments, no doubt taking in his trembling shoulders and twitching fingers, every little hitch of his breath when another jab of pain pierced the back of his skull. Then he lifted his eyes, cold, clear, and light as aquamarine, to Gilbert's own: swollen, watery, and even redder from all of the bloodshot vessels. Without another word he turned and left, disappearing into his bedchambers.

An unexpected lump formed in his throat from Fritz's cold departure. What had he expected, some sort of pity? Well, kind of. A tiny "sorry" would have been good, but apparently that was too much to ask for. He turned his face back into the couch, tears burning in his eyes and his head pounding worse than before. It might have been the combination of misery and agony, but he did not hear Fritz come back into the room. He did not hear him stoke the fire. To him, the flute came out of nowhere and in his shock he lifted up his arm to see Frederick standing right in front of him, blocking out most of the firelight. His eyes were half-lidded and his fingers gently swept over the keys, coaxing a low, warm sound from the instrument. He would have thought that any music would have been the most unbearable of tortures, but this fell upon his ears like a caress and soothed him like a lullaby.

"Fritz. . ." he whispered when there came a pause in the music.

"Hush, _liebling_," Frederick replied and then launched into the next part of the song.

In his amazement, Prussia did just that. He felt the music reaching deep into him, relaxing his tense muscles and calming his nerves. He had no idea what the name of the song was, but he had no doubt that it was something of Frederick's own composition. He sank deeper into the couch and simply listened to the notes. When the song finally came to its end he had almost fallen asleep, and the sudden silence brought him back to full awareness. The couch dipped as someone sat beside him.

A marvelously cool hand started to stroke his face. He lifted his arm the tiniest bit to look at Fritz. "Was that good?" the king asked almost shyly. "Did that. . . help, in any way?"

He smiled again, although it was much wider this time. "Yes, it did," he said, his voice just a murmur. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Fritz said with a matching smile. The back of his hand pressed against his temple. "You feel a little warm." He frowned a little in worry, and then bent down and gently kissed him. "I hope you feel better," he whispered against his lips.

Laughing hurt, so Gilbert just smiled even wider. "I already do," he replied, laying his hand across the side of Fritz's face and bringing him back down for another kiss.

Well now, he supposed that spring wasn't _too_unawesome, not if he was going to get this sort of treatment on a regular basis.

**Summer**

The warm, rolling tides of summer was the best time of year to be in Sanssouci. Not that that was much of a shocker or anything, it was a summer palace after all. But the beautiful terraced vineyards bloomed a lush dark green and the gardens regained their full splendor and dappled the grounds with roses that glowed a myriad of colors in the sunlight. The scent of flowers was always heavy in the air and the sparkling fountains dampened the plants just enough so the smell was never too overpowering and lay just beneath the surface of one's senses.

The gardens were so large that a stranger could easily get lost in them. To those who knew the palace well (such as, say, the person who designed it) the gardens were a sanctuary where one could go off for a moment of privacy. No one would come looking for you because no one knew where you were.

With all of the headaches and pain of spring gone, Prussia was left to bask in the warmth and laziness of summer. And he did just that, lying on his back under the shade of a fig tree with his head pillowed in Fritz's lap. The empty air was being filled with a gentle song from the flute; the notes were played so softly that you couldn't hear the music if you were more than twenty paces away. Despite the soft and dappled light in the trees and the gentle sweep of the hedges that gave a watcher a wonderful view of his surroundings, Prussia's eyes were closed and his attention was focused solely on the rhythmic breathing above his ear and the cadences of the music. It was not the first time he had heard this particular song, but he was the only one aside from Fritz who knew that it even existed. It was not a song for concerts and performances, but a gift that was shared between them, something that was played only when they were alone.

A love song, as Gilbert had once described it. Fritz had blushed terribly when he said that and tried to ration and make some bullshit explanation for him, and Prussia had laughed and said that it was the sissiest thing his king could ever have done for him. There had been no venom in his words and quite a bit of softness to his eyes when he said it, so Fritz knew his nation didn't mind a bit. Ironically enough it was one of Prussia's favorite songs, and not just because he knew what it was about.

The ending was marked by a downward spiral of notes that reminded him of rain and one long, low note that eventually faded into silence. C sharp. Prussia didn't like the ending. There was a sort of sadness to it, as if the world was being deprived of something. The drowsy warmth chased away most of it, but the feeling still remained.

His eyes were still closed, but he could hear Fritz putting his flute away. He was always so fastidious with it, treating the thing as if it were his own child. The case clicked shut and then all was calm and quiet. Two birds sang a duet somewhere in the distance, but they were barely audible. Suddenly a hand was on his head, gently stroking his hair. He felt fingers brushing his forehead, skimming across his eyelids and traveling down his cheekbones. He smiled under the fingertips that tenderly traced his lips. "A groschen for your thoughts," Frederick murmured, tickling him under his jaw.

He allowed his eyes to part halfway so he could view his beloved's face. The smile he was wearing suddenly morphed into a grin. "Pay up," he said, holding out of his hands expectantly.

"It's a figure of speech," Fritz replied in amazement.

"Thoughts can be dangerous things sometimes," Gilbert said, closing one of his eyes as if threatening to fall asleep. "If you want to let loose such things then you better be willing to pay for it."

Frederick scoffed and rolled his eyes in a long suffering manner. "So dramatic," he said but dug into one of his pockets anyway. He found a groschen and placed it in Gilbert's palm. "Moneygrubber."

"Miser," Prussia retorted, holding the coin up to the light. He turned it this way and that, and then tucked it into Frederick's coat pocket. "There, a reward for the wonderful music." He laughed as Fritz rolled his eyes again.

"So what were you thinking?" Frederick prompted.

"Absolutely nothing," Gilbert said, stretching out and pressing his head deeper into his makeshift pillow.

A chuckle. "The usual, then," Fritz teased.

Prussia whined and smacked is arm lightly. "Hey, I just gave you a compliment and now you go and—" Two fingers pressed against his lips, shushing him.

"Oh relax, you silly thing. You're worse than a girl."

"Well you were the one who said that 'more feminine' crap that one time—"

"So are you finally accepting that?"

"No!" He tried to sit up, but a hand on his shoulder restrained him. He was pushed back down, much against his will. "Hey, let me up d—" Lips pressed against his fiercely, swallowing his complaints. It was Frederick's favorite and most effective way of shutting him up. He tried to pull away—because he _was _still mad and all—but Fritz's hand wound its way into the back of his head and pressed him closer.

When he was finally let go their faces were inches apart. "You are such a child," Fritz said affectionately, playing with a lock of his hair.

He smiled despite himself. "And because I'm a child I'm still mad at you. We children love to hold grudges."

His face was pulled closer. "Would my love forgive me? Perhaps accept an apology?" Frederick kissed his ear lightly.

"You'll have to do a lot more than apologize if you want to be forgiven so quickly." Oh, his little king was going to have to do a lot.

"Tell me."

He let his eyes slide closed. "Well, for starters for can continue what you were doing. I'll think of something in a minute."

There was another laugh and his mouth was captured again, hands pulling him ever closer. He parted his lips lazily and let Fritz explore his mouth, gently sucking on his tongue to encourage him. Summer was officially _awesome._

**Autumn**

"Is something troubling you?" Frederick asked as they quietly explored the woods of Silesia, examining their new territory and the benefits they would reap from it. It was the middle of autumn and the trees had long ago turned a brilliant scarlet and gold, blocking out the evergreens like children isolating others of their kind for being too different. Even though the colors were warm and inviting to the eye, a chill wind whistled between the trunks, nipping away at any exposed skin. Ruler and country were the only two souls around, having slipped away from the army with their horses to go sightseeing.

Prussia was gently tugged out of his daydream and he blinked in confusion. "What?" he asked, turning to look at Fritz.

The monarch sighed and tugged on his reins a little, bringing his horse up besides Gilbert's black Friesian. It was an odd sight, the smaller white horse riding next to the massive black warhorse. "You looked a little peculiar just now," Fritz said. "Tired, I guess. Are you still injured and haven't told me?"

He smiled and shook his head, still touched by this commander who actually seemed to care for his wellbeing. "I'm just fine," he said. He could tell that Fritz didn't quite believe him and he fought down the urge to laugh. Seeing his kin turn into such a worrywort over _him _was too cute, not to mention incredibly flattering. "Would you understand if I said that I'm just being the non-human that I am?"

Frederick raised an eyebrow. "I cannot, since I am just a human myself." He tilted his head a little, pondering over a question. "Would you care to educate me?"

Gilbert pursed his lips in thought, glancing at their surroundings as if looking for inspiration. "I can try," he said. "You know how I'm not only empathic to my people, but my land and culture as well?"

"Yes."

"Look around you right now. What's happening?"

He was given a look, as if he was being asked, "Are you serious?" However, his monarch obediently did as he was told, his long braid whipping his back as he swung his head. After a few moments of quiet observation Fritz spoke. "Well, obviously autumn is arriving. The leaves on the trees are dying."

"Ah, there's the keyword: dying." He saw Fritz look at him in alarm and really did laugh this time. "Oh no, no! You have the wrong idea there." He waved his hand dismissively. "I'm not dying, nothing of the sort. However, you see everything winding down, how everything seems to be getting slower?" A nod. "I feel it too. It makes me sleepy. That's why you said I looked tired."

Frederick nodded again, his insatiable curiosity returning. "Does this always happen to you when the seasons change?" he asked. "I remember how you get those terrible headaches in the spring."

He was already figuring things out. Prussia loved having such a shrewd man as his king. "Sometimes it's not that bad, sometimes it's unbearable. Usually I just feel it around major climate changes, like winter to spring and summer to autumn. It's just something you have to get used to when you're a nation." As they spoke they came across a small stream that cut right across the trail. The sound of bubbling water added a sort of tranquility to the scene, something you usually didn't see while marching with an army. "No bridge," Prussia said, frowning. "We'll just have to walk across, then."

"No," Fritz replied and he dismounted. "I like it here. Let's give the poor horses a rest and we can stay here for a while."

Gilbert shrugged and slid off his horse, stretching his cramped muscles. The Friesian whickered and turned to look at him questioningly. He smiled and patted its head. "How long do you plan to stay here?" he asked, starting to tether the beast. "We don't want Schwerin throwing a fit because His Royal Majesty has vanished."

"Schwerin can just worry all he wants," Fritz said carelessly, pacing among the trees. "He knows that you are with me. I am in no danger."He didn't see Prussia's surprised look, mainly because he was busy picking out the leaves that had already fallen into his hat. When he turned back around he was holding up a bright red leaf, squinting at it. "Hmm, too bright," he murmured, holding it up to Gilbert's eyes.

The albino smiled a very tiny smile. His bookish lover was in a bit of a playful mood, it seemed. "Please, I'm far too awesome to be compared to dead leaves," he said, plucking one of the falling pieces of foliage from the air. He scrutinized it with a suspicious air. It was a pale yellow shot through with streaks of red, like a flame.

Fritz raised an eyebrow. "You're so pessimistic. Is dying all you see around here?" He gestured to their surroundings.

"Mainly," he said, mirroring the expression. "I assume you're trying to make some sort of point?"

"Of course," Fritz said with a smile. "I find autumn very beautiful, myself. It might prelude a cold winter, but what a prelude it is! You say everything is dying, but everywhere I look I see life."

Gilbert paused the slightest bit before answering. Seeing Fritz in such a jovial and carefree mood was odd, to say the least. "How so?"

The king let the leaves slip from his fingers and tumble to the ground. "In the autumn everything ripens. Fruit, trees, women." He gave a sly smile as he said the latter. "Even though the leaves are wilting, they look so vibrant. It's as if everything is just giving out an explosion of life, a final act before the curtain falls." He crossed his arms and waited for a response.

Well, that was one way of looking at it. Prussia tapped his chin in thought, mulling the words over in his head. "I've never thought of it that way before," he admitted. "I think you might be right, in a sense. People are more active in the fall. Especially children, always jumping about in the leaves." A smile flickered across his face as he remembered how he used to do the exact same thing when he had been young.

Frederick nodded slightly. "Ah, that as well." He had the oddest expression on his face as he said this, and Prussia focused on it immediately.

"What? You never liked jumping in leaves?" He asked in disbelief. Surely his king could not be _that_stiff!

Now Fritz was definitely avoiding his eyes. "No, I never actually did that," he said.

Prussia's jaw fell open. "Never?" he repeated.

"No, never. I was not allowed to pursue the same childish activities of my friends. Father wouldn't permit it."

He let out a noise of sympathy in his throat. There were still times when he felt that familiar stir of pity for his dear king, for an innocence lost far too early in his life. "You missed a lot of fun times," he said, scraping his boot across the ground, pushing leaves into a pile.

"So I've been told," Fritz replied, still looking at the branches overhead. He sounded a little sad.

He would just have to fix that then. He stomped around in a wide circle, kicking and shoving leaves until he had a decent pile in front of him. It wasn't very large, but it would suffice. He went over to Frederick, who seemed to be lost in thought. He waved his hand in front of his face to catch his attention. "Come on, we can still make up for lost time," the soldier said, grabbing him by his wrist.

Fritz looked confused, and his eyes found the pile that Gilbert had scraped up. It took him a moment, but realization slowly dawned on him. "You can't be serious," he said, although his voice lacked any rebuke, just amazement.

"Am I laughing?" Gilbert asked quietly, stepping closer. He cupped Fritz's cheek with his free hand, turning his face to look at him. A delighted grin spread across his face as he saw a slight blush color his reagent's ears pink. "Trust me, you'll love it. It's fun."

"It's—just foolishness," Frederick replied, although he seemed to have trouble getting the words out.

"How would you know? You've never tried." Prussia was having none of these objections and stepped back, pulling Fritz with him. Despite his words, Fritz didn't protest that much and tugged half-heartedly at the hand holding him. He actually looked a little curious. "Now, watch," Prussia said, leaning close to him as if whispering a secret. Then without any warning he yanked Fritz around and pushed him, although not harshly. He took Fritz completely by surprised and the monarch stumbled back and fell, yelping in a rather undignified manner as he came down on the pile of leaves. Red and gold and brown exploded into the air, swirling around him and giving his blue uniform a stark appearance.

Prussia exploded into laughter. None of the sly chuckling or snickers that people were used to, but great hoots of mirth that echoed among the trees and made the horses snort in surprise. "Oh—my—gods, your _face_," he gasped inbetween breaths, holding his stomach and just barely standing up.

Fritz sputtered and sat up, feeling around for his hat, which he had lost in his fall. Amazingly, he was also laughing. "That's wasn't funny!" he yelled, trying to stand up. "What w—" He was only halfway to his feet when he saw Prussia leap at him and tackle him, bringing them both back into the leaves.

"Nu-uh! You're not supposed to get up!" Gilbert said, his grinning face inches away from Frederick's. "You're supposed to roll around. Have fun!"

"I am _not _about to do that!" Fritz gasped in shock.

Prussia laughed again and shook his head in amusement. He scooped up a double handful of leaves and dropped them right on Frederick's face. "Come on, little spoilsport. Have some fu—aaaaahhh!" He yelled as Fritz immediately grabbed leaves of his own and threw them in his face. There were hands on his shoulders and suddenly he was falling backwards with Fritz landing on top of him.

The king looked ridiculously pleased with himself as he shoved another handful of leaves down Gilbert's uniform. "Ha!" he shouted. "So now who's—" he was cut off when Gilbert grabbed him and pulled him into a rough kiss. For a moment he was stunned, but then all his previous thoughts drifted away and he returned it eagerly. Prussia's hands ran over his shoulders, gripping his uniform tightly. Suddenly his nation threw his whole body upwards, and the force of it sent them rolling over; red eyes hovered above him wickedly. "Much better," he heard Gilbert purr before he leaned back down and kissed him again, starting right back where he left off.

Alright, autumn could be awesome as well.

**Winter**

Autumn had died a peaceful, quiet death and had let winter come upon the land. First the earth was bare, and then the snow had fallen and had covered everthing in a blinding white sheet that warped one's sense of things. Everything was so bright and so _still _that it seemed as if the cold had frozen the flow of time itself.

People tended to stay indorrs, which was fine by Prussia. He liked being inside a palace with a mug of wine and a roaring fireplace to chase away the chill. Fritz disliked it because that palace could not be Sanssouci. He would have stayed there his entire life if he could, but the way the palace was constructed made it very susceptible to the cold and sickness was a common problem. Of course, Fritz would have stayed there anyway, being his stubborn self, if Prussia had not constantly berated him about it. They both moved to the royal palace in Berlin for the winter, where they were surrounded by the court.

It wasn't nearly as beautiful as Sanssouci, but something about the snow softened the look. Prussia loved it and often spent his time outside, playing in the snow with Gilbird and throwing snowballs at unsuspecting passersby. Something about the snow excited him, and it had nothing to do with the climate or his people or his lands, it was his own private pleasure. He often dragged Fritz out with him, and the man grumbled and complained because he did not like the cold very much, but he stayed out anyway. With all of the people flocking inside the palace, not to mention the Christmas decorations were going on, it was hard to find some peace and quiet. Of course with Prussia round it was hardly peaceful _or_quiet, but that was beside the point. He still enjoyed his time.

The only instances when they were truly alone and allowed to enjoy each other's company was when they were inside Fritz's apartments. No one except Gilbert and Wilhelmine were allowed inside and anyone who dared to contradict that faced the displeasure of the king. Even now, on Christmas Eve, the two of them were not a part of the ball that was being hosted to celebrate the holdiays and were more content with snuggling on one of the couches next to the fire. The dogs lay on the rug and Gilbird was asleep on his owner's shoulder.

It was almost midnight, and Frederick was trying not to fall asleep. That was a little difficult, since he had had nearly two glasses of wine and was currently pressed against Gilbert's side, his head resting on a broad shoulder (the one opposite to Gilbird.) Prussia hand gently stroked his hair and the back of his neck, causing his thoughts to drift pleasantly. He felt the chest in front of him tremble as Prussia laughed softly. "Tired already, old man?" Gilbert asked, his voice filled with a gentle teasing.

He mumbled something inaudible and turned his head so he could bite down on sensitive skin of the albino's neck. Prussia squeaked and tried to squirm away and Fritz bit down harder. "Hush yourself," Fritz said, his words muffled. "Now tell me what time it is."

Gilbert managed to free himself and twisted around to look at the clock. "Five minutes until midnight," he said and settled back down. "Dunno why you're so excited about it."

"Because it's Christmas," Fritz replied, resting his chin on Gilbert's chest and smiling at him.

"So? You used to hate Christmas."

"Used to," Frederick said, laying his head back down. "I like it when I'm with you."

Prussia laughed again, although not unkindly, and went back to messing with his hair. With his free hand he grabbed the rest of his wine and drained it in one gulp, then handed Fritz his own glass. The fire popped, sending flickering shadows across the furniture.

Fritz sat up, placing his empty glass back on the table. "What are you doing? Sit down," Prussia grumbled, hugging his across the waist and trying to pull him back down.

"In a moment," Fritz said, prying his hands off. He stodd up rather shakily (although he attributed that to the fact that he had been laying down for the past few hours) and stepped around the couch. He glanced at the clock as he passed it. It was 11:57. Almost midnight, he had to be quick. He made his way over to a cabinet and opened it, revealing its contents to be a large bottle and a small box tied up with a ribbon. He grabbed both and came back to the couch. "Hand me the corkscrew please," he said as he sat back down.

Prussia squinted at the bottle. "Champagne?" he asked, handing the device over. "Honestly? We just had some wine."

"Are you turning down an opportunity to drink even more?" Fritz shot back, a knowing grin spreading across his face. "I know my precious Prussia better than that. Besides, it's custom to drink champagne on the stroke of midnight." The cork came out with a loud pop that made the dogs jump in fright.

"Says who?" Prussia demanded, frowning at him.

"Says me, and I'm King, so what I say is law." Fritz said, pouring the sparkling gold liquid into their glasses. He chuckled at Prussia's face and held out one of the glasses. The country mumbled something under his breath and took it. His crimson eyes fell on the box. "What's that?"'

"Your gift," Fritz replied, unable to keep the smile off his face.

Prussia had the oddest expression when he heard that. "My. . . what?" he asked, as if his king had just spoken something in a foreign tongue.

"Don't be silly, your Christmas gift," Fritz said. He patted Gilbert on the knee. However his smile began to disappear when he saw that Prussia's face did not change. "What's wrong?"

Prussia shook his head. "Nothing. It's just that I'm not used to getting gifts. No one has ever really given me a Christmas present before."

Fritz blinked in surprise. "No one? Surely you jest."

"I don't. I was more of the partying type, so I either held Christmas parties or went to them. No one ever gave me a gift."

"Well then, I'm honored to be one of the first." Frederick replied, his smile returning. Just then the clock struck midnight and the bell started tolling. Far off in another part of the palace a loud cheer went up. "_Joyeux Noël, liebling,_" Fritz murmured and held out his glass.

Prussia smiled and clinked their glasses together. "_Frohe Weihnachten, Schatzi._" Then he threw back his head and drank, the long column of his throat bobbing up and down as he swallowed.

Fritz sipped his own drink modestly, watching as Gilbert once again emptied his cup and set it down. Really, the man's tolerance was amazing at times. The pale man sat up fully and stretched, popping his neck and shoulders. To his surprise, Gilbert then plunged his hand between one of the couch cushions and felt around. Before Fritz could ask what he was doing he pulled out something that was wrapped in a thin cloth. "Here," Gilbert said, handing it to him without a flourish. "It's, um, your present." It was hard to tell in the firelight, but his cheeks seemed a bit more pink than before.

"You hid it in the couch?" Fritz asked, a secret delight warming his heart. He took it and started to peel off the cloth. From the way it felt he knew immediately that it was a sort of book. As the last swath of fabric fell away and saw Prussia pour himself some more champagne so his back was facing him. He smiled and at his nation's shyness and looked down at the cover. _Zadig ou la Destinée_. He frowned a little. That sounded awfully familiar. "I think Voltaire mentioned this to me in one of his letters," he said conversationally.

"It is Voltaire," Prussia replied quietly.

The king's eyes grew huge and he looked down and yes, there was the the poet's name under the title. This must have been the new book that his friend mentioned, the one that had only recently been published. He knew that Prussia disliked the man, and he had obviously swallowed his pride and bought the book—for him. For his pleasure. He thought his heart would burst out of his chest. "Thank you," he said, setting the book on the table, next to the box. "You're sweet." He saw the blush on Gilbert's face deepen, and he resisted the urge to laugh. He leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, then tapped the box. "Now it's your turn."

Prussia tsked but reached for the box anyway. It was barely smaller than his palm. "Why is it so small?" he asked as he pulled at the ribbon.

"Because the gift is small," Frederick answered in amusement. He tapped his fingertips together nervously, his eyes never leaving Gilbert's face. Gilbert had of course gotten him something that he _knew_his king would like, but Frederick could not say the same. He knew that Prussia would certainly appreciate the goft, but he wondered if he would understand the full message he was trying to say.

Gilbert finally slipped the ribbon off and lifted the lid. His brows dipped a little and his countenance turned into a distant confusion. "What is this?" he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He gently took the object out, examining it in the firelight. It was an Iron Cross, black with a white trim, just as it was always depicted in history. It hung from a silver chain that was polished so brightly that the light winked off of it like stars. It rested comfortaby in his hand, smooth and cool to the touch. He turned it over on the blank side and was even more surprised to see the Hohenzollern coat of arms engraved into the metal.

Frederick gulped his champagne and willed the right words to come to him. "I had it made for you," he said at last. "I know that this symbol was an important part of your history, and I thought that you would like to be able to carry some of your history around with you. The Iron Cross represents _you_, just like the black eagle does." He moved a little closer, pointing to the coat of arms. "And that is my family symbol. I want you to know that no matter what happens, you will always be a part of our family, and myself. I. . . " For a moment his words almost failed him. "I have no other way to show you just how precious you are to me. How you alone have my complete love." He knew he was being the "mushy romantic" that Gilbert always teased about, but Gilbert didn't seem to mind the slightest bit. In fact Gilbert's expression had softened quite a bit. He stared at the cross with some intense emotion that Fritz could not name and ran his thumbs along the points.

He was silent for so long that Fritz started to think that he had done something wrong, or said something that he had not meant to. He was on the verge of apologizing (for what he didn't even know) when Gilbert closed his fingers around the cross and looked up. Fritz was astonished to see that his eyes were filled with tears. He opened his mouth to speak, then had to stop and swallow before he could. "I—I don't know what to say," he managed to choke out before one of the tears rolled down his cheek. "_Verdammt,_" he muttered angrily, wiping it away.

"Then don't say anything," Fritz gently teasing, wiping away the other tears with his thumb. "However, a 'thank you' would do just nicely."

Prussia made a sound that was something between a laugh and a sob. "Thank you," he said, turning to look at him. "You have no idea what this means to me." It was the most sincere thing Fritz had ever heard him say.

"On the contrary, I believe I do." Frederick replied and took the cross from his hands. "Here, it has a clasp on the back." He slipped his hands behind the albino's neck so he could clasp the chains together. The cross stood out starkly against his clothes, a splash of black against white, and rested right over his heart. When he went to pull his hands away Gilbert reached up and grabbed them tightly, holding them in place. He only saw a wicked smile before he was pulled into a soft kiss. It was Gilbert's own way of thanking him, of trying to convey all of the words he couldn't say. He tried to reach up so he could touch Prussia's face, but that tight grip on his wrists prevented him from going anywhere. Suddenly he was being pushed back into the couch and he felt Prussia's weight on top of him, holding him down. He heard Gilbird cheep in indignation as the sudden movement threw him off.

Now thoroughly on top of him, Prussia started to move downwards, trailing soft kisses to his neck and jaw. "My King, I do believe more than a simple thank you is in order. I believe I'll have to _show_you how grateful I am." The warm purr in his ear sent shivers running down his spine, something that didn't go unnoticed by Prussia.

"Then do it," Fritz purred back, trying to pull his hands free from Prussia's grip and failing.

The country chuckled and squeezed his arms tighter. "I shall. Now stop that squirming, or I'll have to tie you up." From his expression Fritz knew that he was being deadly serious, but when he bent down to kiss him again Fritz found out that he really didn't care.

Winter was—oh to hell with it. _All _of the seasons were awesome.

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><p><strong>AN: So this is my submission for Fritz/Prussia Day complete with the cheesiest title EVER for any of my stories XD You have no idea how hard I worked on this. I almost starved myself at times because I skipped lunch to hang out at my school library and type it up there.**

**Now, before I say anything else: FFFFFF-SAP. This pairing brings out my inner sap SO MUCH. It's like being smothered in syrup XD**

**When I was looking for imspiration on what to write, I noticed that my prompt list for DYFW had not a single one of the seasons in it, something I found quite odd. I love the seasons so I decided to make my stories based on that. Copius amounts of Vivaldi were listened to while they were being typed.**

**Spring:** **Even though Vivaldi's "Spring" is all happy and joyful, for the oddest reason a thunderstorm came to my mind when I thought of this. XD Then I had an image of Prussia with a headache, being tormented by the thunder (I do know that some people get bad migraines when spring first comes around) and then this formed. I felt so sad for Prussia, because I know how it feels to have a bad headache and lie on a couch all by yourself. So naturally Fritz had to cheer him up, and what better way to do that than with a flute and some fluff?**

**Summer:** **Yaaay lazy summer! As for Vivaldi, that's also a bit of a lazy song, although it may not seem that way. Anyway, that little "love song" of Frederick's is a big nod to my headcanon. I think that Fritz would of course compose songs for his love, even though he's a bit emabarrased by it. It even come with lyrics! (But Prussia invented the lyrics on his own so they're absolutely filthy)**  
><strong>I love writing their conversations. So much.<strong>

**Autumn: Well now, this was partly inspired by FiofaFi and HotTorchic, two of my awesome friend son DeviantArt. My own views of autumn mirror Prussia's: everything dying and ugly and sad. Mainly that's because where I live though; my state has a bunch of evergreens and pines so most of the time everything is green anyway, and the only things that actually age really well are the sweet gums and maples, which are beautiful when they turn red. Unlike other places I live somehwhere where autumn is not pretty. But they told me that autumn could be beautiful and Fi even challenged me to write something about it, so here you go dear~ I actually sat out in my front yard for a few minutes, observing the colors, before Fritz's line about everything seeiming more alive hit me and then I ran to get my pen and paper XD**

**Winter: I...I have no words, just sap. But I'll try to write something XD I didn't want this to be a copy of Aim For the Face, so I attacked it from a different angle and decided to make it Christmas time. However that would mean that they would have to give each other presents, so I was kinda stuck on that for a little while XD After a while I decided that Prussia would give Fritz a book of Voltaire's (because he really does love him that much) but Fritz's gift eluded me. I gnawed on my pen for the longest time before I remembered a headcanon of mine: that Fritz actually gave Prussia's Iron Cross necklace to him, since I've seen it pop up in comic strips that took place before the Iron Cross became a military decoration of Germany.  
><strong>**And that cross will come back later, promise :D  
><strong>**  
>Lol and as for the certain trends of the stories, those were entirely unintentional. XD You notice they all end with a comment about the season being awesome and of course a makeout session XD I actually established that trend in Summer, when I noticed that it was ending in the same manner that Spring had, so I decided to do it for all of them.<strong>

**Last headcanon note: I think that 'liebling' was Fritz's pet name for Prussia and Prussia called him 'Schatz' and all of its variations**


	7. Pizza - Want

**A/N: Eeeee, it's been a little while, hasn't it? XDD Yet again I'm still trying to stick to my self-imposed "10-stories-per-chapter" rule, and I think this is the only instance so far where I actually abided by that rule XDD I'm about to break it reaaal soon though XD The first three stories are made of suck, but they get better as you progress downwards.**

**Btw, I am calling the first three prompts the Bastard Prompts because they did NOT want to work with me. Especially Beta. Oh Beta you little bitch. C (I'm also sorry in advance if there's any formatting problems. FF's really screwing with me.)**

* * *

><p><strong>Pizza <strong>

The sound of singing woke him up. He was sprawled across the couch with his arm over his eyes and Aster lying on top of him. For one blurry moment he was confused because he knew that West would never in a million years sing in the kitchen (unless he was in a _really _good mood and thought he was alone) so the singer obviously couldn't be him. A second later his brain registered the voice that was two octaves higher than his own and the stream of Italian that it was singing and a huge smile split his face. "Off, Aster," he ordered, pushing the sleepy retriever away. He managed to crawl off the couch and hit the floor on unsteady, sleep-fogged feet. Gilbird gave a half-hearted cheep from his hair.

His shoulder popped as he stretched languidly, standing on the tips of his toes and bending his back into a perfect curve. He straightened out and headed over to the kitchen, smiling even wider when he peeked inside. Of course little Veneziano hadn't noticed a single thing, always wrapped up in his own little blissful world. The young Italian was bustling about the kitchen, kneading a lump of dough on the counter and occasionally checking on a pot of bubbling tomato sauce. He must have snuck into the house again, because Prussia knew from personal experience that West was far to OCD to let others use the kitchen, except Japan.

"Hey Feli!" He said as he stepped into the kitchen, still smiling because damn it that kid may be older now but he was still so innocent and cute! Sometimes he wondered if Feli had grown up at all since the last time he saw him.

Veneziano jumped in surprise and whirled around in shock. "Oh, Gil!" he chirped when he saw who it was and immediately ran over for a hug. Prussia easily gave it to him and laughed as Veneziano pecked him on the cheek. He, unlike West, was used to the Italian's overly-affectionate way of expressing himself and simply went with it. "Did I wake you Gil?" Feliciano asked when he pulled away. He was the only one who was allowed to call him Gil without being punched. "I saw that you were sleeping when I came in so I tried to be extra quiet. Ve~ I'm so sorry! I promise that I'll be quieter!"

Gilbert just laughed and ruffled his hair, carefully avoiding that one particular curl. "Aw shucks, don't be sorry. It was time for me to get up anyway!" Actually it was the first nap he had gotten in two days, but he hated seeing North Italy being anything other than his usually jubilant self. He turned to look at the various ingredients that were scattered around the kitchen. "Whatcha making? Pizza?" He grinned, immediately recognizing the circular shape of the dough.

Just like he expected, Veneziano immediately brightened up as if he had just flipped a switch. "_Sì!_" he said, all but bouncing back to his place. "I haven't visited Germany in quite a while, and I thought that he must be making himself sick from all of that weird food he eats, so I thought I'd make him a pizza!" As he spoke he started to toss the dough up and down, making Gilbert wonder how he managed to talk at the same time.

He let the jibe against his food slide, mainly because he knew that Feliciano never insulted anything on purpose. He was just far too honest about his own opinion. "And how's that going?" he asked, sitting on top of the counter so he could watch more comfortably. He heard another cheep and Gilbird flew down from his head and onto his knee, examining the kitchen curiously.

Feli frowned, scrunching his face up in the most adorable way. It reminded Gilbert of West when he had been younger. "Fine, I suppose. I brought most of my ingredients with me, but there aren't that many things that are useful for making pizza at your house." He turned and examined the tomato sauce closely before giving it a small taste test. Judging it to be sufficient, he picked up the entire pot and carried it to the counter.

Prussia tried not to laugh and fed his bird a few pieces of shredded mozzarella that Veneziano was keeping in a bowl. "Well, we don't eat pizza, so we don't keep things around that make it," he replied mildly. Gilbird cheeped in agreement.

"Ve~! Please stay out of the cheese, I need that!" Veneziano exclaimed, rushing over and grabbing the bowl before the two of them could stuff themselves on it.

"But it tastes good," Gilbert complained, slowly following Veneziano until he was right beside the Italian. He felt Gilbird land on his shoulder. He watched as the younger of the Italy brothers started spreading his tomato sauce and cheese all over the dough, his red eyes never missing a single detail. "Hey, why don't you put some wurst on it?" He asked when he saw Feliciano slicing thin pieces of pepperoni and placing them over the cheese.

The chef froze when he heard those words. He frowned again in confusion. "Why?" He asked, tilting his head to one side like a confused dog.

So cute! Prussia rubbed his hair again and smiled. "Why not? Come on, you like wurst, right? Where's your sense of adventure?"

"Hmm," Veneziano replied, tapping his chin and staring off into space as if he were trying to do advanced calculus in his head. "Your wurst does taste pretty good, but only sometimes. I've never tried it on pizza before though…"

That surprised him. "Why not?" he asked, immediately going to the fridge for some of the wurst that he and Germany always kept in store. "I thought that was a pretty common thing over at your place."

"It is, but _fratello _doesn't like wurst."

Oh, that explained a lot. "Your brother doesn't like anything…except perhaps Spain." He snickered at that and slammed the fridge door.

"Ve~? I don't get it."

"I didn't expect you to," Gilbert answered. "These are leftover from last night, if that's fine with you."

Feli's smile returned. "Oh, that's alright! In the old days pizza was a way to get rid of leftovers!" He still looked doubtful but started chopping the meat up regardless.

Prussia stole a piece of pepperoni and nibbled on it. "Interesting," he murmured, offering a bit to Gilbird.

Veneziano nodded enthusiastically, excited over any opportunity to talk about his culture, although pizza was technically not his. "Oh yes! It's funny how many people love it now, when it was originally a dish for the poor. Whenever they had any leftover food they would—"

Suddenly the front door slammed open unceremoniously, making the both of them jump. "FELI! Where the hell are you?" Well, speak of the devil and he shall appear.

"Ve~! Big brother, please don't slam doors like that! It's scary!" Veneziano called back, trembling a little.

Footsteps stomped over to the kitchen. "Of course I'd find you over at the potato bastard's house! Do you know how long I've been looking for you? You could have at least left me a damn note or—" a brown haired head poked itself around the corner and Romano's already dour expression dropped even more. "Oh, it's you," he said, glaring at Prussia in an attempt to show that he presence was neither welcome nor appreciated. Which was really quite unfair because it wasn't even Romano's house to begin with.

"Yes, me," Gilbert replied, giving the older Italian a sharp smile. He knew that he freaked Romano out and loved to mess with him.

Romano's eyes widened and he quickly stomped into the kitchen. "What are you doing with the older potato bastard?" he demanded, grabbing his brother by the elbow and glaring warningly at Prussia. "You know he's almost as bad as his brother, no come on bef—"

"No!" Veneziano whined, digging his heels into the floor like a child. "Big brother, I'm making a pizza! I'm not done with it yet!" He gestured frantically to the pizza still sitting innocently on the counter.

Lovino immediately rolled his eyes. "Feli, how many damn times do I have to tell you to _stop_ making my cuisine? It was invented by my people and only _I _know how t—" he stopped when his eyes fell upon their creation. "What the FUCK is that?" He screeched, pointing at the newest topping.

Oblivious as usual, Feliciano just looked confused. "It's some wurst, _fratello_. Gil had this idea that if we put wurst on pizza then it might—"

"Oh hell no!" Romano yelled, making a grab for the thing, but Prussia quickly captured him in a half nelson and pinned his free hand behind his back. "Let me go! Fucking potato bastard I swear to god I will kick your ass up and down your damn Brandenburg Gate—"

"Put it in the oven!" Prussia ordered, laughing at Romano's futile attempts to break his grip. "It'll be awesome, trust me!"

The younger of the brothers looked a little worried, with Romano's screeching and fighting, but he didn't seem to be in pain so Feliciano somewhat warily did what Prussia said. This is just increased Lovino's yelling until it echoed through every corner of the house; not that either of them minded, Feli was used to it and Gilbert had heard Ludwig yell a lot louder.

The albino laughed again, both at Romano's flailing limbs and Gilbird flying around their heads avoiding said limbs. "Oh, don't get all pissy about it," he said, his voice barely audible over the furious cries in Italian that were probably insulting everything he could think of.

"_Fratello_, I don't think it will be that bad," Veneziano added in an attempt to please his brother.

"Don't talk to me about what you think! It's the culture of my people and you are _ruining _it—" he went on until Prussia got tired of hearing him yell and carried him into the living room and then threw him on the couch, facedown. Prussia quickly sat on his before he could get up and effectively pinned the southern nation down so his voice was muffled by the pillows.

And truly, it was the best pizza Gilbert had ever eaten. It was totally worth sitting on top of a writhing, kicking, screeching Italian for nearly a quarter of an hour.

**Mafia**

Really, all of this over a pizza? Romano took the meaning of "overreacting" to a new level. But Gilbert had to admit, this was way more fun than he thought it would be.

He thought it was rather cute that they were dressed in nice suits, but then again they always dressed in suits. It wasn't like he was one to talk though, since he was in uniform. West would have a heart attack if he saw him now, all dressed up in his SS outfit with the swastika strapped across his arm. Hey, if the mafia was going to overplay their role with their striped suits then he was allowed to play Nazi for a while.

"_Ja?_" he asked when he opened the door to their constant knocking. He knew that he surprised them, but he kept his amusement down. They looked very young, perhaps they were new.

In all honesty, they didn't look like they wanted to be there. Prussia wasn't really surprised. With a boss like Romano they must have been ordered to do all sorts of weird stuff. They even accepted the cigarettes he offered them. The joke was on them though. He had found those cigarettes in one of his pockets and they were probably older than the both of them.

So he stood in the doorway with a serene smile of his face, blowing smoke in their faces, and listened to the stammered explanation he was given. Damn, they really looked out of their depth. It must have been too odd for them to see a victim that wasn't terrified of them, and dressed like a Nazi no less. It was the uniform. He knew he looked awesome in it. That was a good thing too, because he _knew _that he was outgunned so the only leverage he had was his experience and their fear of him. "So, let me get this straight," he said, taking a huge puff of his cigarette and flicking the stump away. "You're here to 'hit' me," he made quotation marks with his fingers, "for making a pizza?"

One of them looked rather sympathetic and the other had no clue what to do. A few choice comments later and they were both arguing over how ridiculous their mission was. He simply leaned back and watched the chaos unfold until he saw a third figure approaching. "Sirs," he said, interrupting them. "Can I ask you to go now? You seem to be pretty good people and I don't want to see you get hurt." That was an outright lie, but the punchline (literally) would be all worth it.

One of the men rolled his eyes. "And what are _you _going to do?" he demanded, hefting his gun into view.

He widened his eyes, filled with childlike innocence. "What _I'm_ going to do?" he repeated, laughing. "No, no, you should be worried about what _he's _going to do." He pointed to the man behind them.

They both turned and one of them managed to catch a glimpse of Ludwig's fist before it slammed into his face and dropped him like a sack of potatoes. The other swore and raised his gun, but Ludwig grabbed his wrist and broke it in one smooth movement. Then he easily slammed the man into the ground, knocking him out instantly. The younger nation wiped the blood from his knuckles and looked back and forth between the unconscious men. "What happened here?" he asked very calmly.

"Romano," Gilbert replied, grinning widely.

Germany sighed, and then his expression darkened. "Take that off," he growled, obviously noticing the outfit. "Right now."

"Alright, alright," Prussia replied, going back inside. He knew that his brother didn't like to joke around with relics of his past, especially the particular era that he was wearing. "Thanks West, love ya!" he called over his shoulder. An irritated grumble was his answer.

**Beta**

Alpha came before beta. Alpha was the highest rank, the dominant one. Alpha was first, beta was second.

Prussia could remember when he was the alpha. He had been the strongest of Europe, and the thundering steps of his soldiers had made the ground quake beneath them. There had been a time where no one had dared raise a fist against him and he sat comfortably in his throne, laughing at the nations below him. Dear little Ludwig sat in his lap, nestled in his arms, his head resting against his throat. His beta.

"_Ich bin ein Preuße, kennt ihr meine Farben?_" The Iron Kingdom sang, marching under the banner of black and white with the ebony eagle flying over his path. His blood burned and the taste of victory was on his tongue as his boots trampled his enemy, those who dared to tear him down and throw him the dirt. Did they not know that he was the best? He was not on top for nothing. He had everything, and no one could take that from him.

But he could not stay up there forever. He knew that as well as anyone, but he preferred not think about it. Instead he crafted another throne beside his own and placed his little brother in it so they ruled side by side. There had been no beta then, just two alphas. They had been two suns which the others revolved around; they changed the world. And then, he had cruelly been kicked out of his throne and found himself kneeling at the boots of his brother, who had no longer seemed so little. The balance between them had changed, and now he had been reduced to the beta.

Which was not how it was supposed to be. He was the oldest and the strongest and did not deserve to be kicked around by the little runt that he raised! A deep part of him was proud, despite himself. This was just what he wanted to see: that little child grow up to be a ruler, even if that meant ruling him as well. He may have been angry, but he accepted him new position reluctantly. Until another alpha came and claimed him and tried to crush him. He had fought him in the past, as an alpha, as two major powers colliding. The past was the past though, and being just a second place shell of a nation that everyone carelessly threw aside, he had no power left. His enemy laughed and laughed at him, _It's funny how things work out, da~?_ The chain around his throat tightened, cutting off his air. _The rising star of Europe, now sitting at my feet like a dog. It's like the wolves of Siberia, where the omega male is crushed beneath the alpha. _But he was not beaten, and he never bowed willingly. Through snow and blood and stone he survived, because he was still the best. He may have been an "omega", but he knew how to live through torture.

It was kind of funny, in hindsight. He had stronger and more powerful people trying to destroy him, and yet despite his lower position he still won in the end. The brother who he thought had betrayed him so harshly helped him regain his life. Finally, he was the one laughing at his foes while they stare back in envious disbelief. Why did he still live? He was nothing. He had nothing to call his own except his name. He was an omega, a pitiful loser that had to step aside for the alphas, so why was he around?

He laughed whenever someone asked him that. "Because I'm too awesome to die, that's why," he answered with his usual cocky grin.

**Sight**

He gasped as the explosion rocked through his body and sent him flying backwards into the dirt. Bright flashes of pain sliced across his view and then gradually faded away. But something was wrong, he could not see the shapes of his men marching across the battlefield or the terrain or the Austrians. In fact he could not see anything at all. He tried to blink in an attempt to chase away the darkness and yelled as a sudden spasm of pain drilled through his skull. He clawed the ground and drew his knees up as if to curl in on himself, panting harshly as he waited for the pain to end. The battle was still going on, he could clearly hear the fire of artillery and the shouting of his men and he could feel his people being wounded, but he could not see anything. In a sudden grip of panic he ripped off one of his gloves and felt around his eyes with a shaking hand.

He winced as more pain came from his head, but under his questing fingers he could feel hot, sticky blood and sharp fragments—_bone and wood and pieces of his goddamn __**skull**__—_embedded in his flesh. Another cry was torn out of his throat as he felt the gory mess of meat and blood that were once his eyes. _I can't see, _he thought, the realization crashing over him like a bucket of cold water. _I can't see Ican'tsee Ican'tseeIcan'tseeIcan'tseeICAN'TFUCKINGSEE_— he whimpered deep in his throat and clawed at the ground like a newborn, choking down the sobs that threatened to escape his body. The enemy was approaching, he could feel it, and he had to get out of there.

Easier said than done. He sat up on his knees and was immediately knocked back down as one of his soldiers tripped over him. An unseen foot stepped on his hand and invisible troops made the ground tremble beneath him. He was afraid to get up again because he had no idea where to go or how to avoid whatever dangers lay ahead. Again he threw out his arm and felt around him, searching for something the only way a blind person could: through touch. He wrist clumsily bumped against something solid and he grabbed it. A closer examination revealed it to be a rifle, with a bayonet attached no less. Well, at least he wasn't totally defenseless. He didn't need to see in order to fight.

Suddenly the ground next to him exploded again and he felt dirt and grass sting the raw flesh of his face. The enemy artillery must be getting closer. One of their shrapnel bombs had already taken out his eyes and another well-placed shot could take him out for good. He stumbled to his feet and almost instantly tripped over a dead body that had been lying in his path, and only fortune stopped him from impaling himself on his own weapon. A hopeless cry tore itself out of his throat. How in the world was he supposed to move when he couldn't even walk two paces? He felt tears building up where his eyes used to be and they burned and itched like fire and he wanted to claw at his eyes. _Out, vile jelly, _he thought sourly as he contemplated it.

"_Preußen!" _he heard someone call over the noise. He frowned to himself. Was that Schwerin?

He heard hoofbeats nearby and felt the ground rumble. He sat up in alarm and tried to stand. Was that the Austrians or his own people? Even though he was still blind he tried to look around, as if that might help him. Smoke sung his sensitive eyes and he doubted he would have been able to see much of anything anyways. The hoofs stopped right beside him and a horse snorted frighteningly close to his ear. "Gilbert!" Fritz shouted clearly, and there was a thud as feet hit the ground. Then two arms were around him and helping him up. He knew those hands and that voice, and he gripped the arms around him and buried his face into Fritz's coat. "Gilbert, what's wrong?" Frederick asked, trying to pry him away. "Please, you need to get up. You'll be trampled out here!"

He shook his head miserably. More warmth trickled down his face and into his collar, more blood and tears and sticky fluid, hell maybe his brains were dripping out of his head. "I can't," he sobbed, clinging to Fritz like a child. "I'm blind." Something in him broke to say those words out loud.

"What?"

"I can't see!" he howled. "I can't see! They took my eyes, Fritz, my eyes. . ." His voice trailed off into a whimper. He wanted to just curl into Fritz's arms and hide from the world. Then suddenly there were hands on his face, trying to turn him upward. "Nooo," he moaned, but despite his protests he felt cold air on his face and knew that his face was exposed.

Silence. And then: "_Oh my god. . ." _Fritz breathed, his voice barely audible over the sound of gunfire. But Prussia heard it and he wanted to cringe and hide himself away from the absolute _horror _he heard in that tone. "Schwerin!"

More horses pounded up. "Yes, Your Majesty?" Schwerin said, his voice tinged with anxiety.

He felt his arms being tugged gently, guiding him across the field. "Take Gilbert to the doctors immediately," he ordered, bring them up beside a horse.

He heard gasps from all around him. "Merciful God," Schwerin said, "what happened to him?"

"I don't know," Frederick replied, giving Gilbert's arm a light squeeze.

"Strauss, give him your horse," came Schwerin's voice.

_You do realize that I can't ride a horse because I'm _blind? Prussia wanted to say. All of a sudden Fritz's hands left him and were replaced by another, unfamiliar pair. His fear came rushing back and closed his throat, causing him to choke on his monarch's name. He reached out for his king, but could not feel him. _Fritz, Fritz! Please don't leave me, please. I can't see, don't leave me alone! Please, don't leave. _Ignoring his cries, those foreign hands dragged him away, propelling him back into the world of confusion and darkness.

**Carnival**

"Come on, admit it. My parties are like, totally the best thing ever."

_The best thing ever would be like, totally punching you in the face. _Prussia thought in reply to Feliks, sipping his wine in order to keep his face blank. He was a guest here, and he had to be respectful to his host, even if that host was one of the most damnably infuriating men he had ever met. "It's. . . interesting," he said at last, trying to find a suitable word for the spectacle he was trying to describe. "Very colorful." Hah, colorful. What a laugh. It looked like God had just barfed a rainbow all over the place.

Poland laughed good-naturedly and resting his hand on his fist. "Yeah, I know. It's so _boring _to have everything all one color, so I had to liven it up some!" He laughed again, looking so smug and self-important that Prussia wanted to hit him. He wondered how in the world Saxony could stand it. "My King actually gave me full reign this time and let me plan everything!"

_That explains why everything is so mind-numbingly gaudy. _Prussia thought sourly. Being stuck with a king like Frederick William for so long had dulled some of his extravagant tastes, and he found himself somewhat annoyed at the great Dresden carnival. Or maybe that was just because he was spending so much time with Feliks. Where the hell was Saxony anyway? He might have been a complete knucklehead but at least he wasn't Feliks.

"Hey, Gil, do you—"

"Do _not _call me that," he growled out, gripping his cup tightly. No one was allowed to call him that except his Bad Friends and Italy.

Feliks huffed, puffing his cheeks out childishly. "Okay, chill out," he said with a sly smile. "But, as I was saying, do you think your royals are enjoying themselves?" Despite their history of being sworn enemies, Poland still had a very tiny shred of concern for his guest. At least, he did with his royal family.

Gilbert tapped his fingers in thought. A few hundred feet away, King August was showing off his strength by doing his usual trick of snapping horseshoes with one hand. Even as a nation Prussia had to admit that was pretty damn awesome. Frederick William seemed to be pretty impressed as well, watching the display with a thinly veiled respect. He couldn't see Fritz anywhere, but he had no doubt that the boy was off somewhere trying to soak up the lively atmosphere. "I think they are enjoying themselves very much," he said. Another bit of an understatement, since the cheerful Saxon court was like a breath of fresh air compared to the militant and almost oppressive Berlin court he was used to. He knew that Frederick would not be wanting to leave any time soon.

"Totally great," Feliks said with a wide, satisfied smile. A band of musicians came tumbling by, dressed in red and gold and playing a lively tune that had many dancers all but flying over the ground as they tried to keep up. When they had passed by the blond nation turned to his neighbor. "Hey, you've got to see this," he said, a sudden excitement coming over him. He knew better than to grab Prussia's hand or wrist, but he sorely wanted to.

"See what?" Gilbert demanded, narrowing his eyes. Seeing Feliks so hyper was usually not a good thing.

"Something totally awes—" he qualied under Gilbert's malicious glare. "Cool. Something totally cool."

"I don't believe you," Prussia replied flatly, then he noticed that August seemed to be talking to Frederick William. The soldier-king suddenly turned and gestured to Frederick, who somewhat reluctantly came to his father's side. "What are they doing?"

The grin Poland was wearing sent alarm bells off in his head. "Come on, I'll show you." With that he set off at a brisk pace, forcing him to finish the rest of his wine in one gulp and almost jog to catch up with him. Feliks of course knew the palace like the back of his hand and led him through hallways, rooms, and little hidden shortcuts, all of which were decorated with elegant tapestries and paintings set in gold frames; crystal chandeliers glittered overhead like captured stars and silver and gold platters lay on the dining tables that they passed, all of the utensils polished until they were like mirrors. Even Frederick I, the most spendthrift man that Gilbert had ever known, would have gone pale at the thought of how much money all of the lavish decorations had cost. They arrived at a handsomely fashioned oakwood door and at the exact same moment King August came into view with Frederick William and Fritz.

"Ah, Feliks! It's good to see that you brought your friend," the cheerful king said.

Now where in the hell did he get the impression that they were friends?

Even Feliks look a little comfortable at the implication. "Yeah, I did," he muttered, trying not to scuffle his feet.

King August didn't seem to notice. "Come, this way," he said, opening the door and gesturing the inside. Frederick William gave him an odd look, but complied. For a moment Fritz hesitated and looked to Prussia as if asking him if it was alright. As a reply the kingdom shrugged, telling the prince that he was just as clueless as the rest of them. Fritz cautiously stepped inside. The moment he was gone Prussia saw the Polish king give his country a conspiratorial wink, which immediately made the alarm bells start clanging again.

"Hey, Prussia, wanna see what's inside?" Feliks asked, a positively wolfish grin spreading across his features.

_Not on your life, _Prussia wanted to say. He opened his mouth to tell him that and remembered that August was still in front of them and anything rude to come from his lips would have repercussions later. "If you insist," was what he said, although he did not move.

"I do," Feliks said, placing a hand on his shoulder and guiding him inside.

The room turned out to be a luxuriously decorated private salon, only natural for a man of August's tastes. Candlelight gave a soft, diffused look to everything and made the rich color seem warm and inviting. Frederick William was examining a tapestry, his back facing them. His son was looking around the room as if he expected something to jump out, which turned out to be a wise move. Poland led him to stand just beside the door and he caught a flash of movement as King August made a gesture. Then, just like that, he turned and swiftly vanished without so much as a sound. What in the world?

He turned to give Feliks a questioning glance, but the shorter man wordlessly shushed him and pointed to a corner of the room. He saw a servant suddenly appear from a hidden doorway, rolling an elegant velvet couch into the room. Lying on the cushions was an even more elegant woman, stark naked and reclining against the armrest in the most obvious "come hither" position the Gilbert had ever seen. He thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head and he saw the same expression mirrored on Fritz's face. Oh dear gods what was August thinking? Normally he would not have cared one whit about what was happening (actually he would have enjoyed it) but he knew exactly how his king would react. Sure enough the moment Frederick William turned around he sputtered in shock, the blood draining from his face. Then a moment later he seemed to realize that his son was still in the room and didn't seem as shocked as he had a second ago. Quick as a flash, the king rudely pushed Fritz through the door, ignoring the prince's protests, and rounded upon the terrified servant and started up his infamous yelling.

Prussia couldn't help it. He started to laugh and bit down on his hand to quiet himself, but Frederick William had already heard him. He saw a death glare thrown at him but the king never once stopped his tirade. Even Feliks was laughing, but it was more of a giggle than anything. It was just too funny! Not to mention he had to appreciate the boldness of the move, but he should have expected nothing less from the ever flamboyant king and his country. Hell, the girl was still sitting there and had not put on any clothes or made any attempt to cover herself!

Now he was pretty glad that they accepted the invitation to Dresden. If anything else, this was worth it.

**Circle**

One stroke. Just one, simple stroke and there it was. Prussia tapped his stick in the dirt, staring pensively at the perfect circle he had just drawn into it. Such a simple shape. And yet it was so important, so vast. How such a "simple" shape could affect all of the nations in the world!

_Draw a circle, that's the Earth.  
>Draw a circle, that's the Earth.<br>Draw a circle, that's the Earth.  
>I am Prussia.<em>

"What's that?" Fritz's voice came from right behind him, causing him to jump. He whirled around in alarm, shocked that someone had managed to sneak up on him. "Forgive me," Fritz apologized with a smile, coming to sit on his heels beside him. "I just heard you humming and I became curious."

"Oh?" he replied, raising his eyebrows. He had not been aware that he was humming.

Fritz merely nodded and then noticed what he had drawn on the ground. "What is that?" he asked again, pointing. "And don't try to be cute and say that it's a circle."

He laughed, because that was exactly what he had been planning to do. "It's the Earth," he said, tapping it.

"I see," Fritz said. "And the song?"

He rolled his eyes. "So questioning! So prying! Curiosity killed the cat, as the saying goes."

"But I am not a cat. And you're avoiding the question."

Dammit. He hated it when Fritz called him out on that. "It was a song that my parents taught me," he admitted after a small silence where Fritz patiently waited for him to talk. "I mean Aestii and Germania, they both knew it. It had been taught to them by _their _parents. . . All of the countries know it."

Fritz looked intrigued. "How does it go?" he asked, interlocking his fingers and resting his chin on them.

Gilbert shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. "Most of it's just drivel. Many of the actual words have been lost over time, since the song is very old. Hell, I was told that it's the oldest song in the world." Frederick did not answer him, but waited expectantly. He sighed. "Must I?"

"You don't have to," Fritz said, "but I would very much enjoy it if you did."

Oh no, not _that _ploy. He knew exactly what his king was up to. Of course he liked to please his king, but there were some things that he would not do. He never sang for anyone, never in his entire life. He didn't like an audience, so he would never—"Alright, fine. I tell you the few lines that _don't _change." He took a deep breath. "_Draw a circle, that's the Earth~" _He drew another circle for emphasis._ "_You say that three times, then you say what country you are. Then it goes: _Ah, with a single swipe of a brush, a wonderful world can be seen! _Something's supposed to come after that, but no one knows what."

"I see," Fritz said again, trying to bring his thoughts back into some semblance of order. Hearing Prussia sing in that deep, riveting voice was...was..."Is that the only part you know?"

Prussia shook his head. "No, but it's the part that shows up in every song. Minus my awesome name of course." He saw his leader's look and tried to explain. "All of us know the song, us countries I mean. However we all have our own different words for it, but those few lines always remain the same. It's the only part of the original song, the one that was invented by the very first countries, that survived."

Frederick tapped his chin thoughtfully, mulling over something. "So you countries knew that the world was round even before the scientists discovered it?"

Gilbert looked amused by this. "Yes, we always did. We can feel our lands, and we could feel that they were. . .curved, I guess." He ran his hand along the air, making a sphere. "Ach, I'm not making any sense. We've just known that the Earth is round, the same way that you know that the sky is blue and the sun is bright." He paused for a minute, still thinking, and then suddenly threw the stick away and stood up.

"We can learn a lot from our countries," Fritz said, letting Gilbert help him to his feet.

_Our _countries. Not _you _countries, as if saying that they were different from humans. Prussia did notice his king's rather possessive tone, though. "No one remembers us," he said, linking his arm through Fritz's. "We're supposed to remain in obscurity, as a rule."

The arm around his tightened. "Not with me, you won't," Fritz promised, leading them away from the twin circles in the earth.

**Manipulation**

"Oi, what the hell's all this?" Gilbert demanded, indicating to the freshly dug garden in the palace grounds. The earth was still loose and soft. But there were no plants in it as far as Gilbert could tell.

Fritz watched him with that smug little smile on his face that he always wore when he knew more than someone else. "That's my new garden," he said, coming to stand beside him. "A little small compared to the others, I will admit, but I don't intend for it to be that big." He tapped his fingers on his cane and watched the guards that he ordered to stand around the garden. They looked very stoic and professional, and they were in plain view. Both onlookers and passersby gawked as they passed. He knew the question that was on everyone's mind: Why was the king ordering guards to be placed around his new garden? What was so important that they had to protect?

"Stop being so vague and tell me what it is," Prussia said, crossing his arms and _almost _pouting. That was a trait that the both of them shared: they hated it when one of them kept secrets from the other.

He stopped his laugh before it could begin. He loved it when Gilbert pouted and whined; it was adorable. Scanning the area, he already saw that people were starting to stare, both noticing their King and wondering who the pale man standing beside him was. "Come, this place is far too public." He turned and walked away. He didn't even dare link their arms together or grab his hand, because that would only start rumors.

The hedges that lined the garden paths closed around them, shielding them from prying eyes. All at once the sounds seemed muffled as well and birdsong could be heard over the murmurings of the city. "I assume you know about my recent failures in getting the peasant stock to implement potatoes into their diet," he began, keeping his voice in a low, conversational tone. It wasn't quite a whisper, but it was just quiet enough to let others know that it would have been terribly rude to eavesdrop.

Prussia snorted with laughter. "Of course I know it, everyone does." He said, smiling a little. "Honestly, did you really think that threatening to cut off everyone's ears and noses would actually work?"

Fritz whacked his cane against the country's knee. Not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to let him know that the comment was unappreciated. "Oh hush. Might I remind you that it was _your _suggestion?"

Because he was so pale, it was easy to tell when the blood was rushing to Gilbert's face. "I didn't mean for you to take it seriously," he said rather lamely.

"You didn't tell me _not _to. Nonetheless, it didn't work." They came across a bend and the interlocking yew branches overhead came the path a little shade. Two other gentlemen passed both of them and bowed to the king as he went by. When he was certain they were out of earshot Fritz continued. "So I decided to go for a less direct approach. I can't do a repeat of what I did with you, so I'm letting rumors do the work for me."

Prussia nodded in reply, remembering how Fritz had gone to rather dramatic measures to show him that potatoes were in fact edible. He still got chills thinking about it; he had been terrified when he saw Fritz eat what he thought had been deadly poison at the time. "I'm assuming your new garden is filled with potatoes, then?"

"Exactly," Frederick replied, delighted that he had made the connection. "And I've told people to say that my guards are watching over my potatoes. I want the word out as quickly as possible."

"Why?" Prussia asked, tilting his head to one side like a confused dog.

"Because that will make people curious," Fritz explained, smirking deviously. "They will want to come and see it. They will wonder why I, the King, want to have something as foreign as potatoes in my garden and why I have soldiers guarding them."

An understanding of what his king was trying to do flickered in his brain. "You don't put guards around something unless it is precious in some way," he said slowly.

Fritz smiled brilliantly at him. "Again, you are correct. People will wonder what makes these potatoes so precious, and they will want them for their own." Unable to help himself, he barked out a laugh. "And they will think that it is entirely their own idea as well! Unbeknownst to them that this is exactly what I want them to do!"

Gilbert laughed with him, then paused. "Wait, what do you mean by that? Are you going to let people break into the palace and steal right out of the gardens?"

"That is exactly what I intend to let them do. It won't work as well unless they think that they have ultimately outwitted me." He fiddled with the buttons on his cuff. "Do not fret, there will be guards watching the rest of the grounds to make sure that they don't go any further." The trees ended, bringing them back into the sunlight. "And once they realize that the stolen potatoes are edible, it might finally get through their deplorably stubborn skulls that potatoes are _food." _His long suffering tone made Prussia laugh as they strolled through the grounds. It didn't take them long to start betting on how long it would take for the citizens to finally crack and become bold enough to sneak into the palace gardens and steal the potatoes.

It took five days. Prussia knew his people well (as a nation should) and predicted that the potatoes would be gone within a week. Fritz thought that the people had more respect for his guards and would therefore hesitate longer, and he was quite amazed when he found that to be false. Despite that, he still smiled and praised his soldiers for following orders and deliberately looking in the other direction whenever they noticed someone climbing over the walls. They simply ignored the thieves to the best of their ability and let them run off, carrying the King's potatoes with all the glee of children who had just snuck sweets from the sugar bowl.

**Fourth of July**

This was absolutely amazing. No, not amazing. _Awesome. _This was awesome and Prussia knew without a single shred of doubt that the title was well-earned. He actually felt privileged to have been a part of it. Then again, if his awesome self had not been here then it would not have been nearly as awesome.

Cannons fired everywhere and the cheers of people sent his heart racing. He wasn't even a part of these people and he could still feel them! It was so odd, Baron von Steuben was the only one of his citizens in this country, and yet there was still a faint connection with these people. He laughed with all of the others and clapped them on the back, shouting greetings and praise. A sea of people passed him by and somehow, over the great roar of noise, he heard his name being called.

"Prussia! _Prussia!" _A young man was pushing through the crowd, his dirty blond hair in disarray and his blue eyes wide and bright in excitement. If the situation had been any different he would have yelled at the lad for having his uniform so sloppy. "Gil!" the lad finally resorted to shouting.

"I told you not to call me that!" Gilbert yelled back, shaking his fist for emphasis. He knew that he was grinning like an idiot though so his words lacked their usual effect. Seconds later the boy careened into him and latched his arms around him in a crushing hug. Damn, he kept forgetting how strong the kid really was! "You break my ribs and I'll break you!" Prussia swore, but he returned the hug anyway.

America just laughed loudly and eased his grip a little bit. "Cheer up some! Doesn't this feel awesome?" He gestured to everyone around him.

The older country narrowed his crimson eyes, but didn't say anything. He'd let the kid get away with using his word. Just this once. Next time earned him a good punch. "Yeah, it does," he said, letting him go. "I outta tell you, your people sure as hell know how to party!" As he finished another round of cannonfire went off, which just made everyone cheer louder. All that was needed now were a load of fireworks and the whole pomp would have been taken care of.

Alfred blushed with pleasure. "Thanks, we have people from all nations here so we kinda mix the way they party."

Hmm, that didn't sound like a bad idea. However, there was one problem. "Where's all the beer?" he demanded, glancing around. He saw neither food nor alcohol, which was unforgiveable. How the hell were you supposed to thrown a decent party without beer?

America blinked, suddenly looking every bit the kid that he was. "What, are you planning to drink?"

He rolled his eyes so hard that it actually hurt. "Naw, I just want to collect a shitload and play chess with them. Beer are pawns, wine is bishop, brandy equals king." In case Alfred wasn't catching his sarcasm (and he really could be dense sometimes) he smacked him over the back of his head like he always did when he heard the new nation blurt out something stupid.

The blond winced and rubbed his head. "Alright, alright. But we're not supposed to drink on duty."

"Good thing we're not on duty," Gilbert replied impudently. He gave Alfred a light slap on the shoulder. "Now, take me to the nearest tavern. Consider that an order, soldier."

In response the blond also rolled his eyes and, uncharacteristically, gave up. "Fine then, but you pay," he said, starting to weave through the crowd like a fish through water. The people around him parted instinctively to let their country through and forgot him almost as soon as they saw him.

Prussia laughed that brash laugh of his. It was a laugh that could always, without a doubt, make someone feel as if they were being insulted. "Fuck you. It's your goddamn holiday, _you _pay for it."

"That's not fair!" Alfred yelled, turning to look at him in shock.

"Life's not fair kid. Deal with it."

"Gilbert! Alfred!" An accented voice called to them and France seemed to materialize out of nowhere, feather-trimmed hat and lace cravat and all. "_Mes amis, _where do you think you're going without me, hmm?" The dashingly handsome blond asked, one hand quickly grabbing each of their asses. Francis was a person who did not believe in simply walking up to someone without touching them. Despite the groping, he had a hurt and abandoned expression on his face, like an orphaned child. Gilbert knew his friend well enough to tell when he was acting.

Unfortunately America did not. Not only that, but his entire face turned red and he jumped back when France touched him. "Oh, jeez, Francis, I'm so sorry about that, I—I would have gotten you but—"

"Stop blubbering," Prussia interrupted him, grinning at his expression. "And Francis, it's your own damn fault for not finding us sooner."

Francis put a hand over his heart as if he had just been wounded, but the beginnings of a smile were tracing his lips. "But, I am here now. And I ask again: where are we going?"

"Drinking," Gilbert replied, turning his grin onto his old friend. Spain wasn't around, so they couldn't do their usual bar-hopping, getting-pissed-off-your-face drinking, but they _did _have the kid with them. . .

Francis saw his look and understood it at once. "_Amérique," _he all but _purred, _leaning closer to Alfred and making him quite uncomfortable. "This is your town, is it not? I'm sure you know where a good tavern is, and I'm sure that the three of us can handle a few drinks together. Would you mind leading us there?"

"Sure thing," Alfred replied, and then he frowned as France's words sunk in. "Hey wait, the 'three' of us? I wasn't planning on drinking, I mean we're—"

"No," Gilbert interrupted again, grabbing his protégé by the arm. "It's terribly rude to turn down an invitation, Alfred. Besides, if you want to get anywhere in the world then you need to learn how to handle your damn alcohol. Luckily for you, you've got us." He turned the younger country around and pushed him a little. "Now, take us somewhere before I get mad."

"Oh don't listen to him," Francis said in honey-sweet words, smoothly butting him aside. "He's a rough, uncultured soul." He ignored the punch to his ribs. "If anything we would very much enjoy your company Alfred."

He could see the kid's resolution wavering by the second. "Okay, I guess hanging out for a little while won't hurt," he said at last, still looking a bit uneasy.

"Of course it won't," Francis assured him, patting him on the head. "You are quite safe with us." Well that was true, in a sense.

America nodded and smiled. "Alright then, follow me." He started walking away again, and he missed the devious looks that Gilbert and Francis shared behind his back. They both knew that the night was going to be quite memorable in a few hours.

**Own Holiday**

"This day is _waaaay _too awesome to be contained in one little span of twenty-four hours. Seriously Fritz, it was absolutely fucking awesome." Prussia leaned even further back in his chair and now it was in serious danger of falling over.

Frederick tried to hide his grin by sipping his wine. "You've said that seventeen times already," he pointed out, although he didn't really care. He just needed something to say.

"It's just that awesome," Prussia replied, putting his feet up on the table. If he had been back at the palace the Dowager Queen would have thrown a fit at his lack of manners, so he was obviously taking advantage at being out on a campaign. "I mean, I'm the embodiment of awesome so I can tell when something is awesome."

"Well then, what would you do to commemorate this awesome day?" Fritz asked, leaning his head on his fist and staring at his half-filled cup. He was trying not to drink too much this time, since he needed to be sober for tomorrow. On the other hand, Gilbert had gone through enough wine for the both of them and he wasn't even slurring his words yet. It made him just a little envious.

The albino pursed his lips in thought, mulling the question over as if it was one of the great mysteries of the universe. His chair came back to the ground with a muffled thump and he pushed it back again, repeating the cycle until Fritz glared at him to stop. "I know what we should do," he said, pushing the chair again but keeping it on two legs. He quaffed his wine and then slammed the empty cup on the table. "We should make this day a holiday. Every year we should have people celebrate this day for our awesomeness."

Fritz choked down a laugh. "That's preposterous. No one makes holidays after their military victories."

"The Romans did."

"But this is not Rome."

"Says the 'Marcus Aurelius' of Germany." Prussia grinned, sharp and wide, and poured himself more wine. "Anyways, we'll call it 'Awesome Day,' naturally."

Naturally. "Would it not be more prudent to name it something that has more relevance to the actual events of the day you're celebrating?" he asked. Not that he was actual going along with the idea, but he was going to let his love indulge.

Gilbert looked at him as if he had just spoken in Russian. "The hell is that supposed to mean?" he demanded, pushing his chair further back. "It's relevant to everything! All day we were awesome! Besides, do you want to go around all day saying 'Happy Hohenfriedberg Day' to everyone?" He raised his eyebrows, showing him that the question was purely rhetorical.

"I see your point," he conceded with a smile. "We'll have to think of something properly presumptuous later."

"I already said Awesome Day," Prussia pouted, starting to think that his king was ignoring him on purpose.

"That you did," Fritz said, gliding the bottle over to him. After all, _he _wasn't going to drink anymore. He needed to lead an army tomorrow. "But I said 'properly' presumptuous. Make it sound like we paid some pompous ass to sit around all day to think of a title."

Gilbert nearly snorted into his drink. "Oh, that'll twist the aristocrat's nose real good," he murmured. He stopped as an idea came to him. "Ha! And every day it comes around I'll go to Austria's house and punch him right in the face."

Fritz raised his eyebrows, suspecting that alcohol was doing most of the talking now. "Why?"

"We beat the hell out of him today, didn't we? Gotta keep the tradition alive." He seemed to melt into his chair and stared off into space, once again seeming thoughtful. "But then Hungary'll get all pissed," he went as an afterthought, the words tumbling from him without restraint. "Swear to gods that woman's always pissed, like she's a having a permanent peri–_Oh FUCK!" _His chair finally fell backwards, finally unable to hold itself up from all of his pushing, and sent him sprawling across the ground.

"It's a long journey to Austria anyways," Fritz said mildly, leaning to the side so he could look at Gilbert. "I say you should think about it in the morning."

"I say think about it now," Prussia retorted, although his eyes were glazed. He kept rubbing his head as if expecting to feel pain, but from his vaguely puzzled expression it was clear that he wasn't feeling much of anything at the moment.

He stood up and finally offered his hand to his nation. "And knock the rest of your brains out?" he teased, helping Gilbert to his feet. "You won't have two thoughts to put together by sunrise."

"Oh be quiet," Gilbert mumbled, allowing himself to be dragged into a chair.

**Want**

The most sought-after monarch in all of Europe. An apt description, to say the least.  
><strong><br>**Prussia watched his king through half-lidded eyes, seeing him a totally different light than he ever had before. Frederick was hunched over a map of Silesia, studying the little lines and figurines scattered across it, planning some other new detail of their conquest. He was so caught up in his map that he didn't even seem to notice that some strands of his hair had come loose and were now hanging by his face, somewhat tarnishing that upright and perfect image he wore in front of his troops. His hands were splayed flat on the table, holding the paper down. Usually those hands seemed good for nothing but holding a quill or playing his flute, but Gilbert had seen them grasp a sword with the utmost confidence as his king rode among his troops, shouting orders. Recently he had seen a new side of Frederick, one that he had glimpsed when they had been making preparations to invade Silesia. Apparently he was a lot more bellicose than everyone believed and his harsher, more warlike side had reared its head at Mollwitz. It didn't matter that Fritz fled at the end (although Fritz didn't think so) Prussia was still proud of his ruler and his army.

He tapped his fingers against his flask contemplatively before taking another swig. He had taken a bullet to the leg during the battle and it still ached, but that was mainly because he refused to sit still like the doctors had ordered him to and he had spent all day marching and riding. Good old brandy did wonders for pain, and not even Fritz knew that he had an entire bottle of it hidden in his packs. However, combined with the candlelight it made the tent they were in terribly hot, despite the biting cold outside. He muttered a curse and undid the first few buttons on his shirt, freeing his collar and neck and letting the slight breeze from outside wash over him. Someone had left a loaf of bread on the table, and he tore into it greedily, never taking his eyes off of Fritz. The man hadn't even looked up in the past five minutes. "Would you mind sharing your interest of that map with me?" he suddenly asked.

Fritz looked up in surprise, blinking like an owl awoken in the daytime. His eyes widened as he noticed Prussia's unbuttoned collar that displayed his neck and just a teasing hint of his chest. Gilbert would have laughed, but his mouth was too full. Fritz's head quickly dropped back down. "I was thinking about Neisse, actually," he admitted to the table. "I wish we could have captured it. Things would have been so much easier."

Prussia smiled and finished his meal. "Well, things can't be perfect all the time. At least we won this round." He sipped his flask again to wash down the remnants of bread.

Fritz didn't look at him. "Yes, we should count the blessings we have." His voice lifted a little, and whatever gloom he had seemed to be chased away. "Pass me that chocolate, will you?"

He reached for the cup across the table and handed it over. Fritz accepted it with a murmur of thanks and met his eyes for the barest second before turning away. He sipped his drink and tapped his fingers against the table in an absent manner.

At once Gilbert knew that something else was bothering him. "Do you have any plans?" he prompted gently.

There was a beat of silence. "I'm not sure yet," Frederick replied. "I should like to wait for the foreign envoys to arrive first."

He waved his hand, bringing Fritz's attention on him. "You know I hate it when you don't look at me when you speak," he chided him.

Something flashed across Fritz's eyes, but it was gone so quickly that Prussia had no idea what it was. "I know," Fritz replied, a smile finally stretching across his face. It was a magnificent sight and made him look so much younger. Prussia wondered why he didn't smile all the time.

"Then why do you do it?" the nation asked, smiling back.

Fritz merely shrugged in answer and lowered his eyes. He wasn't looking away from his charge, but he wasn't meeting his eyes either. Almost as soon as he broke his gaze his smile faded and his brooding descended on him once more. It was driving Gilbert absolutely insane and he wanted to reach out and grab his face and tell his king to look at _him _and nothing else.

…Huh. Now where did that come from? He sounded like a jealous housewife all of a sudden.

Wife. . . he recognized the expression on Fritz's face now. It was that daydreaming look he had been seeing for quite a while now. Years actually, on and off. "Mooning for your ladylove again?" he asked, wondering why he felt strangely hurt by the idea.

"It's _not _a lady, Gilbert." Fritz snapped at him. Then he stiffened as he realized that he let something slip and shook his head as if to physically wrench the thoughts from it.

Gilbert laughed in a low voice and edged forward. "So, your _man _then," he said, trying not to grin. "I envy him. He must be really special to capture your attention for so long." And why should he envy him? It wasn't like he cared about who his king liked or wanted…right?

For a moment it looked as if Fritz would say something, then he shut his mouth. Gilbert couldn't see his face very well because he was _still _looking down, but he was certain that he was torn between telling him and keeping silent. The silence stretched on, getting heavier and more awkward with each passing second. Finally Fritz sighed and said, "He is special. Very much so." He even _sounded _wistful.

That didn't tell him anything, but at least it was an honest-to-gods response. "Do I know him?" Prussia went on.

"Why do you want to know?" Fritz asked defensively. Dammit, he was back to avoiding questions. "It's none of your business."

Truly it wasn't, but Prussia didn't care. He wanted to know who in the world was keeping _his _Fritz's attention off of him. _A bit miffed, are we? _A snide little voice in his head asked. He ignored it. "It's my business when my King is distracted and unable to do any work because of it." He knew that Frederick hated it when he invaded his personal space—it made him uncomfortable—so he stood up went sidled up to him, just inches away from his side. Fritz turned his head just the barest degree in his direction. "Besides, you know that I'm a nosy bastard."

Fritz laughed, sounding a little out of breath. "I do know that," he agreed, trying to edge away from him. Prussia just stepped closer. "Gilbert, I—"

"Look at me when you speak!" Prussia finally snapped, reaching out and grabbing is leader's chin and turning it towards him.

His move was so sudden and unexpected that Fritz simply gasped in shock, but then he smacked the offending hand away angrily. His eyes, almost on their own accord, dropped down to his open shirt and the powder-white skin that it revealed. Only a moment too late he realized that his emotions must have been written all over his face, but Prussia had already seen everything; the lust and _desire _he saw in those blue eyes floored him completely, and the blush that rose to his leader's ears only confirmed his suspicions. For a moment he wondered why in the world Frederick was looking at _him _like that, but then it hit him like a gunshot.

Oh. . . _oh._

Well now, this was certainly an interesting twist to things.

Suddenly Frederick backed up as if trying desperately to put some space in between them. He only took a step before his back hit the table. "Gilbert, I—I—" he stammered guiltily, for once his words failing him.

His expression went right through Gilbert's heart, and he wanted to wipe it away. Fritz hadn't looked this ashamed over something in a very long time, and he realized that the look did not suit him very well. "My King," he said, a grin stretching across his features. "I'm flattered." Something in the back of his mind told him that he should be alarmed, that this was _bad, _but the sudden joy that swept through him silenced that voice.

Fritz frowned in puzzlement, but the odd mix of guilt and desire was still there. "You're not. . . mad?" he asked as if he feared the answer.

"Why would I be mad?" Gilbert asked in genuine surprise. "If anything I'm quite pleased to be the object of your affections." He took a bold step forward and once again planted himself in front of his king.

"Because I've known you since I was a child," Fritz replied, sounding confused. As if he couldn't imagine a world where Prussia would _not _be mad at him. "And to think of _you _in such a way—"

"Ah, but then who would be better than me?" Gilbert interrupted him. "After all, I know you better than anyone else. And if you haven't noticed by now, you are not a child anymore Fritz." He watched Fritz slump in relief and smiled widely. "Besides, I've seen a lot weirder things in my life."

"I suppose you're going to tell me how silly I've been acting?" Fritz murmured, a teasing gleam coming into his eyes. Prussia noticed that once all of his fears were banished he was remarkably quick at finding his balance again.

Prussia shook his head. "Not at all. It just means that your morals are higher than my own." He inched forward a little as he said this, forcing Fritz to look up at him. And look he did, with such an unveiled want in his eyes that it made the albino's heart quicken. Those beautiful blue eyes, usually so cold and distant, were all but smoldering like coals, all for him. He noticed, not for the first time, what amazing eyes his dear Frederick had. They stared at him so intensely that he wondered what it would be like having those eyes watch him as he sucked his king off.

Wait, what?

His thoughts were running away from him again. But then again, he certainly liked the direction they were taking. As if Frederick read the lewd expression on his face (and he had, since he had been staring at it) he leaned back. "We can't," he said, sounding as if he were forcing the words out.

Gilbert stopped and looked at him as if he had just lost his mind. "Aren't you the one who started this?" he asked, his irritation rising. What the hell was Fritz playing at?

"I know," Fritz said ruefully. "But we cannot touch, not during a war. Not when one of us could be killed." He almost stumbled over the last word, but he managed to keep his voice even.

The pale man sighed and shook his head. "Being pessimistic again? I told you to stop doing that at Mollwitz. I can't die, and I will never let anything happen to you. It's my duty to protect you."

"Regardless, I would not be very happy if a relationship between us started in the middle of a _war." _

Gilbert chuckled. "What better way to start one?" he asked, but he could tell by his king's face and tone that he would not be moved from his decision. He sighed in annoyance, but then an idea came to him that could only be described as pure evil. "Fine, no touching." He removed one of his gloves and leaned forward until he had Fritz right against the table. Honestly, any farther back and Fritz would have to crawl across the table in order to escape...actually that didn't sound like a bad idea.

"What are you doing?" Fritz demanded, suspicion rising in his voice.

Prussia grinned at him, that malicious grin that promised nothing good. "You said no touching. I will obey my King, and I will not touch you. However, if I _was _allowed to then this is exactly how I would do so." He placed both of his hand on the table so Fritz was caged between them, but he carefully avoided any contact. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he lifted his ungloved hand and trailed it upwards, stopping to hover right above Fritz's cheek. He saw his monarch's eyes widen as he realized what his nation was doing. "See? No touching, just like you said," he said, running his thumb along the air beside his skin.

Oh this was absolute torture. If Frederick's attention had not been so focused on that hand or Gilbert's face then he would have without a doubt hit him. As it was, he was more concentrated on those long, thin fingers which did not seem very suited for a soldier at all. He was quite aware of that thumb that mock-traced the contours of his face, of the fingers that so gently skimmed over his hair. They were so close that all Fritz had to do was straighten up and Gilbert's hand would have been on his head. Even so he could feel the heat from his body and he griped the table hard, imagining that he was grabbing Gilbert and pulling him closer.

That teasing limb came down, following the line of his nose and tracing his lip. Even though it hadn't touched him his skin tingled as if it had been. Gilbert abruptly brought his face closer and allowed his lips to follow the same path as his fingers. His lips caressed the air above his cheek while his hand moved lower, lingering for a moment on his neck before sweeping aback down and resting on the table. The table creaked as Prussia shifted his weight so he could rest his mouth inches away from Frederick's own. Fritz had no idea how agonizing it could be to just stand _still _like he was doing right now. Before, whenever Gilbert touched him his thoughts scattered like frightened birds, but having the albino stand there and _pretend _to touch him made him want to tear his hair out in frustration.

"By this time I would kiss you," Prussia murmured, his warm breath tickling Fritz's face. "But, unfortunately, that is another form of touching."

Fritz was very close to not giving a damn. Inches, just a few scant inches separated them. All he had to do was lean forward the tiniest bit and he could kiss him. He had dreamed of it for so long, had craved it, and now it was finally in his grasp. It was all he could do to resist the impulse to flick out his tongue and taste the lips that hovered a hairsbreadth away from him. He was seriously considering it when he noticed the challenging, almost mocking grin on Prussia face, and in an instant he knew what his nation was trying to do. This wasn't just playful teasing, it was a battle of willpower, a struggle to see who would be the first to relinquish dominancy over the other. If he went back on his word now, then that meant that Gilbert could get him to submit to his will and he would be wrapped around the devious man's fingers. Well Gilbert was about to see how well he could play that game! He saw with a twisted satisfaction that Gilbert was trembling ever-so-slightly; his little game was just as torturous to him as it was to Fritz. This king smiled his own bold challenge and pushed himself away from the table. "Yes, how unfortunate," he murmured back, practically tasting Gilbert on his tongue as they were suspended in a moment just before the kiss. Then he did the hardest thing he ever had to do in his life: stand still.

One long, agonizing minute passed. And then another. Prussia swallowed thickly and forced himself not to move, despite the blood pounding in his ears. He could sense people passing by outside the tent, oblivious to the miniature war being waged between them. He could smell his king, taste him, and almost, _almost _touch him. Gottverdammt if he could just close that gap between them. . . he gripped the table harder, feeling his nails dig deep into the wood. Any more pressure and he might have ripped the table apart. He could clearly see his own desires reflected in Frederick face but he would not—do—_anything_—and it was about to drive him mad.

Another minute dragged by with both of their defense crumbling. Prussia's trembling became more pronounced and Fritz's breath started to come in quicker, shorter pants. He shivered and nearly bumped into Fritz, causing them both to gasp as their breaths intermingled. He found his mouth automatically opening for a kiss and Fritz did likewise, but just at the last minute they remembered themselves and stopped. Another minute dragged on, and right when they were both about to scream in frustration there came the sound of light, hurried footsteps from outside. "Your Majesty!" an aide called like a thunderclap from reality. "Monsieur Bell-Isle is here to see you!"

The mood was abruptly shattered and the both of them were brought crashing out of whatever world they had drifted off to. Prussia swallowed again and shut his eyes, and then stepped back. He plastered a smile over his face and waved dramatically to the entrance to the tent. However, when he noticed Fritz's furious expression his smile vanished. Gods, that was something he never thought he would see again; for a moment Fritz looked almost exactly like his father when he was getting ready to cane someone. The monarch took a deep breath and wiped his countenance clean like the actor he was and half-turned. "Let him enter," he called, his voice steady and unreadable.

While Fritz's outward expression seemed calm and controlled, on the inside he was screaming. No, he had been wrong before. _This _is what going mad felt like.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Ahh, it's so satifying to finally see ten stories up here ^_^ Even if three of them were bastards.**

**Pizza:** **I knew immediately that these had to have the Italians in it, there was no way around it. Pizza was not in northen Europe in the 1700s and it couldn't work with Germancest XD So instead I decided to have some fluff between Prussia and the Italies. Oddly enough I like both pairings as well, especially Prumano because that it's damn hilarious. XDD**  
><strong>And yes pizza was invented in southern Italy and it was a food for the poor people. I remember one time in my Latin class my teacher spent ten minutes explaining the history of pizza to us. It was great XDDD<strong>  
><strong>I also want to explain a headcanon of mine for North Italy: I kinda don't like his 'Ve' thing when he talks because it kinda makes no sense, but I use it anyway. I just don't slap them on every single sentence. However my headcanon says that it's a verbal tic of sorts, and whenever he's confused or scared or anxious or is feeling some other powerful emotion he'll start spewing 'Ve's all over the place.<strong>  
><strong><br>Mafia:** **If I had to choose I would say that this prompt was my favorite of the Bastards because the mental imagie of Nazi!Prussia confronting the mafia really tickles me. Although sadly this prompt kinda ran away from me and I saved it by making Ludwig show up to bail his brother out of trouble, like usual. I should have made the mafia more badass, but this is Romano we're talking about here. (Not saying that Romano and his mafia aren't badass, but he doesn't make the brightest moves sometimes.)**  
><strong><br>Beta: This was I was basically going "FFFFFUUUUUUUUUU-" the entire time I was writing this prompt because it was the first time I had absolutely _no_ idea what the fuck to do with a prompt. Mainly because the word itself gave me no ideas, but I decided that instead of using the Internet term of 'beta' (which would involve Voltaire and I want to space out Voltaire fics as delicately as possible) I used the Greek letter and wolf terms for Beta. It...kinda failed :I Not happy with this AT ALL but I had to get it out of the way.**

******Sight:** Ahaha, whumpage, my sweet love, we meet again. My sadist mind went completely beserk for some reason and turned a completely innocent word into...this thing. I have no idea why, but I actully kinda like writing about blindness (godspleasedon'tshootme) I find that almost weird. O_o  
>Yes there were actually primitive shrapnel-like explosive artillery rounds at this time, although I'm much too lazy to actually look it up and see what they were called. Ironically enough the first thing I thought about when I read them was "I wonder what happens if it gets into your eyes?" XD ...And I actually kinda want to writy a storymini-arc of this plot, as awful as that sounds. I actually kinda want to do a seque...l/mini-arc based off of this prompt, as awful as that sounds XD  
><strong>********  
>Carnival:<strong> This actually happened. Honest to gods. I knew the very moment I saw the word 'Carnival' what I had to write XDD I saw this in my book a little while ago and I quite simply died laughing, became a ghost for a little while, and came back. It the funniest damn thing I've read in months XD  
>I think Fritz was about 16 at the time (I think) and his father had been reluctantly persuaded to take him along to the Dresden carnival, which King August had invited them to. Naturally he loved the place, which was very bright and cheerful compared to Berlin. Not only that, but August was also a patron of the arts and if I'm not mistaken this is where Fritz first met Johann Quantz, the man who would later become his flute teacher. There were also a large amount of *ahem* <em>courtesans,<em> as my book so politely phrased it, and he quite enjoyed them as well. 8D  
>You see, I failed to mention just why King August did what he did, because it wasn't important to the story. While in Dresden, Fritz had fallen in love with the lovely Count Orzelska, which was a bit of a problem because she was also August's favorite mistress (and his daughter, no less!) So in order to remedy this, August decided to "distract" the young prince via one naked chick on a couch. He really led them to a private salon one night after dinner, gave a signal to a hidden servant, and then disappeared as the servant rolled in a couch with said girl lying on it. Frederick William naturally flipped his shit and shoved his son out the door (which was not in the least bit appreciated) then went off on August about it. I was laughing so hard that my neighbors probably heard me XD<br>King August was both King of Poland and Elector of Saxony, so he was techincally the Boss of both of them which is why I mentioned both in my story. He really could snap horseshoes with his bare hands/one hand, and he was called August the Strong because of it. And he was quite, quite spendy with his money.  
><strong>********  
>Circle:<strong> I always wondered why all of the nations had their own version of the Marukaite Chikyuu, and who in the world could have taught it to them. It's not just an ending song, since Italy was actually singing it in one of the episodes, so that made me wonder how all of them knew it. So this sort of idea formed in my head that it was a song invented by the first country(ies) and it got passed on from generation to generation until we have the song we have today. Of course there are different lyrics for every version, and my explanation was of course that some of the words got lost so each country simply made up their own.  
>I thought it sounded cool anyway .<strong>**

**Manipulation: Now I'm sure everyone and their mother has heard the famous story of how Fritz tricked his peasants into eating potatoes. Naturally I had to write about it 8D Funnily enough he _did_ say that whoever didn't eat potatoes would have their nose and ears cut off, and I thought that sounded a little bloodthirsty for him, but not for Prussia XD**  
><strong>Of course that didn't work, and then he used some reverse psychology. Plant some potatoes, have guards around them, let people steal said potatoes because they were obviously worth stealing, and profit.<strong>

******Fourth of July:** There was no way _not_ to include America in this XD In my headcanon, America was a nice, proper young boy due to Arthur's influence, but during the Revolutionary War Prussia and France came along and completely corrupted him XDD And they weren't above dragging him to a bar and forcing him to drink with them to do it.  
>Not to mention some...other things went along during that time, but I won't dive into any further detail than that. Headcanon also speaking here XD I also think that Prussia was a bit hard on Alfred during those times, but he had a bit of affecton for him at the end.<br>**********  
>Make Your Own Holiday:<strong> Argh, story y u so short?  
>Since the Battle of Hohenfriedberg was basically Frederick's first Crowning Moment of Awesome I had to mention it yet again. I love writing drunk!rambling!Prussia and Fritz. Hell I just love writing their conversations in general. I could have mentioned Frederick's other victories, but many of them weren't as...well, happy as this I suppose.<br>Note: the 'Dowager Queen' is Sophia Dorothea, btw.****

****Want: I wanted to make this a oneshot, but I had nine stories so I said screw it XDD  
>Hehehe, you thought something was actually going to happen, didn't you? *trolololo*<br>Gods I loved writing this so much. I have no idea where cocktease!Gilbo came from but he is now forever a part of my headcanon. *HegetsitfromFranceXD* So, in my opinion it was shortly after the Battle of Mollwitz where Fritz and Prussia discovered their feelings for each other, but wasn't until the war actually ended when anything _happened_ because Fritz has odd opinions XD Btw, if Fritz seems a little OOC here it's because he's still having a moral crisis like you saw in **Lust**. However, once he realized that it was perfectly acceptable he went with it completely xDD  
>In this story I really wanted to highlight a trait that both Fritz and Prussia share: their stubborness. I find that a little dominance battle wouldn't be out of character for them, since they both like to top 3 And they also like to tease.<strong>**


	8. Disgusting

**A/N: I'm actually excited and in love with this story. That's a first. XD This is by far my absolute favorite, because 1.) whumpage and lots of angst 2.) it's really long and 3.) I got to use a ton of interesting descriptions which I usually don't get to use.**

**This IS a bit AU in a sense, but not terribly. The note at the bottom will explain it better.**

* * *

><p><strong>Disgusting<strong>

"Prussia."

The word hung in the air for a long while before his ears plucked it down to be heard.

"Prussia. . . _Prussia."_

It was a. . .a name. He was certain of that much. His name? Yes, he thought so. It had a rosemary-scented familiarity to it.

"Gilbert, wake up."

He shied away from that voice, burying himself deeper into his velvet blanket of darkness. He didn't want to wake up. That sharp voice came from a harsh place that promised pain, more pain than he was already in, with a sound of silver tingles that raced along his skin like crawling ants.

"Blast it, man, wake up!"

Silver morphed into an iron-blood taste and peeled back his eyelids to cut across his brain, leaving dull lines of pain flashing across his head. A whimper tore its way out of his throat, hot trickles of more pain scattering from it like horses in a race, thundering hooves forming a pounding in his skull. Suddenly he was aware that he was laying on something hard and cold. The hard and cold didn't taste or sound like anything, and for some reason that terrified him.

Terror tasted like ice.

A wavering sign, then, "Pah!" A single word filled with loathing. Flung down like a dead animal. "You're useless to me."

He flinched and suddenly his body flew apart and rearranged itself in an awry, skewed fashion, like a child taking apart a toy only to shove it back together in a guilt-ridden haste. It felt as if his arms were twisted behind his head at impossible angles and his knee was growing out of his chest and his guts had been drawn out of his mouth and wrapped around his limbs and face, binding him and silencing him. Every moment sent his glass bones snapping and popping back into place with agonizing white slowness. His head hurt, with one single place above his temple burning as if someone had left a burning coal there so it could bore right through his head and into his brains.

"Look at yourself, lying there like a rag," the voice came back, fluttering across his ears with butterfly quickness and bringing the scent of sharp, burning oil with it. "You are such a hypocrite. A _liar." _The razor-edged words caressed his veins, gently parting them and making him bleed inside. " 'My King, I will protect you,' you say, but when that time actually comes you lie there, _useless." _

That one word struck him like a hammer blow and sent his scrambled nerves back into their proper places. His arms were in front of him and his legs were slightly curled underneath him. Something thick and heavy was blocking his mouth, but it was not his guts. Blood, thick and dry, glued his lips shut like a doll's. A pained, red-salt-tasting moan slithered out of his throat with a thousand snake coils brushing against his throat and teeth.

"Hush! They'll hear you!" The voice hissed. There must have been snake trapped in his throat as well. A different tone colored the voice salmon pink, and then it faded to a silver-blue sage scent. "I should have known you would be a liability. I don't even know why I bother with you."

No, stop it, please stop. It hurt, those cold and invidious words. They weren't true. He wasn't a liability. He could be useful.

"You disgust me."

Disgust tasted like rue. Anise burned his nostrils and sticky spiderwebs plucked at his spine like a lute. Those three wormed into his ears and crawled down his throat, wrapping around his heart like branding irons of pain. They _hurt, _oh how they hurt.

"Coward."

Hate burned his tongue like pepper. Yet it felt cold, little snowflakes of malice freezing those cuts in his veins and chilling him from the inside out. He shivered and rattling like a carriage that had been poorly assembled.

"Pretending that you're still asleep. You aren't even _trying." _A pause, the silence punctuated by little bat squeaks coming from the pain in his head and hands. "You call yourself a soldier. You're a disgrace to that name."

His eyes burned and something hot trickled out of them. Blood? It felt like feathers. He needed to get up, to make those words untrue. And he could, he knew he could. Those flickering words with their violet-tastes still chilled him, except for his hands and head. He had to prove them wrong. He had to. . .

. . .wake up.

He parted his lids with a wet, sliding sound. Fluid sluiced from his eyeballs and let the cold air kiss them. For a moment all he saw was gray, hazy and foggy over his vision. It didn't feel like fog though. The light brought violin screeches of agony upon his ears and the high, wavering notes made spots of yellow and red flash across the gray in an odd staccato snapping beat. He blinked and grayness receded slightly. The fog was lifting, bringing more objects into view that coalesced into a room. The yellow lights were actually candles and they were throwing a feeble light on the floor. His hand twitched and his fingers scraped across something that sent signals of _cold _and _hard _and _wood _to his brain. Belatedly, he realized that his wrists were tied. Not with guts, but rope. Wait, not rope, it was too soft. It was. . .cloth? Handkerchiefs? He stared at the binds without really seeing them, the bright colors ringing in his eyes.

"That's it, lie there. Let a little knock on the head stop you."

Now that he thought about it, there was a dark stain underneath his head. Of course, with the pain coming from his skull he shouldn't have been surprised, but for some reason he had not made the connection until now. The puddle was frighteningly dark, and the red-black-hot-sticky blood stretched nearly to his elbows, making him nauseous with its metallic rust-stabbing smell. More of it slowly dripped from his head, tickling down his forehead with swamp green touches to pitter-patter to the floor like soft rain. His hair was sticky, as if tree resin had been smeared across it.

"Never mind that both of our lives are at stake."

_That _roused him, bringing him out of that odd floating state of mind. He noticed that the voice was now tinged with a limey sort of sadness that made him see indigo. That voice shouldn't be sad, a part of him knew. He hurt when the voice was sad, quite literally. He tried to get up, but he moved too quickly and all at once and his body _shrieked _with pain, an awful bruise of a noise that rumbling through his bones and was so loud and encompassing that it made him wonder if the timbers of the room were screaming back at him. Colors exploded in front of him, first red then white then fortissimo black and then the hazy fog was back. This time the pain tasted like nutmeg, which surprised him more than anything because it kept changing flavor as if each new height of pain peeled back another layer of a cottony object that clogged his mouth and ears and left him in this confusing world where his senses were mixed up and sights and sounds were indistinguishable from each other and had their own scents and flavors.

It took the grayness quite a while to vanish. Again it was the voice that drove it away, driving into his skull and spine with the monotonous conviction of a blacksmith's hammer. "Brainless. . .stupid. . .worthless. . .unreliable. . .weak. . ." A bitterness made the words taste strangely of mustard.

He remembered how to work his mouth. He parted his bloody lips, imagining them ripping apart like the fabric of a ragged scarecrow. He swallowed once, forcing the copper-blood-spit down his throat. Maybe the snake would drown in it. "Now. . . " he whispered, putting all of his thoughts into making a simple sentence. "No need—for insults." He croaked them out, his old hag's nails of a voice scraping out of his throat to add a counterpoint to the orange melody.

At once the voice was silenced. "I'm sorry Gilbert," it said later in pine-scented regret. "They're the only thing that you've responded to."

He wondered what that meant. Slowly, he exhaled, trying to clear his foggy head. Or at least clearing it as much as he possibly could, which was admittedly not that much. His strength slowly came back to him, dancing along his fingers and toes and sitting on his scorched heart, as if it could banish the wounds that the words had torn open. He needed to free himself, somehow. But. . .he knew that he could easily do it, but he forgot how. It felt like his mind was trying to break down the door to the problem when it could have simply opened it and walked in.

Handkerchiefs, that was the key. Ropes were harder to untie, but he could not untie the handkerchiefs when he was already tied up. Something else. . .something. . .teeth. As if only now remembering that they existed, his hot-metal-marble teeth started to vibrate like a plucked string. He ignored it and brought his hands to his mouth, forcing his strained muscles to pull them closer, his joints creaking like old door hinges. He dragged his hands closer to his face with all of the deliberateness of a cat stalking a mouse, but when they were a few inches from his grasp _something _caught on a gap in the floorboards and _PAIN! Red green yellow wail tenor smoke PAIN _curdled the bones in his hands and arms and split his skull into pieces that scatted across the floor like beads thrown away by a careless child. A buzzing stared up in the distance, and with the way the pitch varied and brought different shades of color he knew that the voice had started up again.

". . .a coward, giving up like this. Not even putting up a fight." The voice was trembling now, wavering like a leaving tossed into a flowing stream.

_Nein, _he thought redly, too incoherent to form words just yet. He could still see, barely, it was all he needed to guide his wrist to his lips. He parted them again and sank his teeth into the cloth like a dog tearing into fresh, steamy red meat. It felt as if he was trying to bite through wood, which sent an entirely different sort of buzzing into his ears. Then he tugged, he neck cringing in pain, but the bindings didn't loosen. That didn't even deter him; he just pulled harder. His head swirled and the handkerchief tasted of blood and sweat and sweet butter. But he would not let go, he could _not. _He had to get free, why he did not know, but the voice said that he did, and he trusted that voice with his life.

His determination was so single-minded that for a while he forgot his pain and intermingling senses. He was going to get out, and anything else was unacceptable. It felt as if he had been pulling on those rags for years, but in one elated moment he felt a knot slip free. _Yes! _Buoyed by his victory, he immediately went for the other one. This took a shorter amount of time and when the next knot was untied he managed to get his hands free. A wide grin split his face and the bell-like ringing from his lower lip signaled more pain.

The voice was behind him, so naturally he had to roll over in order to see it. The mere thought sent chills through him. A nameless dread sunk its teeth into his gut, but deep inside of him was a part that was untouched, unaffected by all that was going on around him, and it calmly informed him that it was the only way. He knew that it was right and began to plan on how to do it. From the way he passed out earlier, there was something terribly wrong with his left hand, and he wasn't quite sure but he thought his leg was broken. Drumbeats pounded out of it, which had started after he had first passed out and had not gone away since. He took two deep breaths and then in one harsh motion used his good hand to push himself onto his back. His shoulders hit the floor with a sickeningly wet thud and he immediately felt a thick warmth soak through the back of his clothes. His head felt a lot like it was still rolling, even though his body had gone completely still. There was more light on this side, which was mixed blessing since he could see better but that brought the strong smell of moss and damp things to his nose. He saw something move out of the corner of his eye and he turned his head to see Fritz.

His leader was sitting against the wall and for a moment he wondered why, then he saw that Fritz's hand were also tied, and they hung above his head as if he were being chained up in a castle like they used to do in the old days. He was still wearing his uniform, but it was filthy and bloodstained. He had lost his hat and his wig and a few strands of his hair had come out of its braid. Most of the powder had come out of his hair, revealing its true mahogany color. But to his utter astonishment he was the glitter of tears on his king's cheeks, all of them singing with a diamond bright brilliance. That was profoundly wrong, Fritz was a person who should never cry, and the wetness of his collar showed that he had been crying for quite a while.

Fritz was looking at him with a torn and helpless expression. "Gilbert?" he asked when he realized that Gilbert was staring at him.

He blinked, trying to remember how to speak. He had managed it a minute or ten ago, but his rolling head was snatching away his thoughts and memories. A strange curiositystole over him and he lifted his injured hand so he could see it in the light. At first his mind refused to comprehend what it saw. No, that was not a hand. It was too jagged and twisted. He heard Fritz gasp something and noticed that there were mountains on the back his hand. Against the blood on his skin they were a shocking white, splitting through his skin and jabbing out at all sorts of angles like the spines of some sea creature. White, they were such a vibrato white, white as bone. . . he slowly lowered his hand, feeling sick to his stomach. It that was what his hand looked like then he hated to see what the rest of him looked like.

"Prussia," Fritz said, grabbing his attention. "Listen carefully to me. I need you to come here." He gently thumped his boot against the floor to indicate what "here" meant.

The thump made the corners of his vision flicker azure. Terror-ice pooled across his tongue as the meaning of Frederick's words came to him. Come here? As in moving?

Noticing his expression, Fritz went on. "Please Gilbert, I know it will be hard. But it's the only way we're going to get out of here. If we don't free ourselves, then our captors might use us for ransom, or kill us." He leaned forward, his eyes hardening in intensity. "They will _kill _us, Gilbert. They'll kill me."

Kill had a sort of pleasing baked pastry taste to it, but his neck and ribs flamed as the tone scratched down them harshly. He could not allow that to happen, every fiber in his broken body cried out against it. He sighed in resignation thought about how he was going to move. After a moment he gripped the slippery floor with his good and slid his leg up until it was bent perfectly, then he used both to push himself across the floor. It hurt, but of course it hurt, everything he did hurt. He had braced himself for it and even managed to push himself again before his spinning vision forced him stop. He allowed himself only a moment of rest and then started again. People were going to kill Fritz, and he had to stop him. His anger gave him a strength he had no idea that he had and soon his crawling pace had picked up and he was scooting across the floor inches at a time. All of a sudden the back of his head hit a boot and a hot pepper scream pulled darkness over his eyes. It was a wonderful darkness, warm and inviting and smelling of rose petals. For a while he was completely devoid of any pain and just felt a soothing coolness reaching into him, washing away the growling of pain and leaving him floating and more content than he had ever felt in his life. He was far too gone to be able to tell how long he floated in that darkness, but he was certain that it was a long time. Nonetheless his consciousness slowly returned.

". . .a bumbling idiot, not even able to crawl like a baby without injuring himself. Clumsy _fool. _He just sits there, like an inbred sop without a shred of loyalty. Giving up again, leaving me to die."

The litany of abuse tore him apart bit by bit, pitiless and unmerciful. Fritz wasn't even talking _to _him anymore, but merely describing him as if he wasn't even there. Despite the sting of basil and vinegar in his mouth and nose, he still rallied against those words, wondering how in the world he still had the strength to do so. "Never," he forced out, opening his eyes. "Never leave you to die." Even though he was broken in more ways than one, he knew down to the depths of his soul that it was true.

"Gilbert? Oh god, I thought. . . nevermind what I thought." The disdain was gone, replaced by a warm cinnamon relief. "We don't have much time. Can you get up?"

He could not, not on his own anyway. But he had reached Fritz, and Fritz could help him. Indeed it was Fritz who did most of the work, wriggling his legs under him and helping him up. Of course with his good arm he tried to help, but he was so disoriented that the only direction he really knew was up. He let Fritz guide him into a sitting position and then push and prod him until he fell back against his leader's chest. Fritz's head rested on his shoulder and his torso was pressed against his back. It was a position they had assumed many time before, but there was nothing intimate about it now.

He was so tired from the work that he head was starting to spin. "Gilbert. . ._Gilbert. . ." _he felt Fritz whispering into his ear urgently.

He wanted to tell his king that his voice tasted like sage and hearing it brought wonderful lattice designs of silver into his mind's eye. His scent hand a low hum to it that thrummed across his entire body as if a rain-swelled stream had been injected into his veins. But Gilbert knew that he wouldn't understand, he could hear or taste the colors that he could smell. "Wait," he gritted through his teeth before the horrid torrent of insults could start again. "Trying. . . to think." His head was still whirling and all of his thoughts threatened to pull him under.

"Let me do that," Fritz answered immediately. "Now, do you remember the knife you once showed me? The one that you said was hidden in your boot?"

Remembering hurt, but snatches of images came to him. "I think so," he murmured. Then he remembered that the heel on one of his boots was fake, and taking it off revealed a hidden compartment where the aforementioned knife was carefully hidden. He had been ridiculously proud of himself for making it.

"Good. If you can get it then I can cut these ropes."

"I don't remember how to take the hell off." And that was true, he could not recall it even if his life depended on it. And, ironically, it did.

"You showed me how to do it. Just do as I say, trust me."

Yes, that was so much easier, to let go of his thoughts and simply _do _things. To obey a higher command unquestoningly like his army had been drilled to do. He let Fritz talk to him and did whatever he was asked. he let Fritz tell him which boot to grab (by the merest stroke of luck it was not the one belonging to his broken leg) and how to twist his hand and leg exactly _so. _The fake heel came off with a minty click that made him gums itch. The knife was not overly big, but he knew that it was very sharp, since he kept all of his weapons that way. He managed to wrap his fingers around the handle and drag it out of his boot and waited for Fritz's next instructions, trying not to pass out as he did. How long had he been awake now? He had no idea, but it had been far too long. During all of his periods of consciousness he had been exerting himself, each ordeal harder and more painful than the last, and his body was at its limit. It was odd, because by now he should have healed himself, but instead his condition had, if anything, deteriorated. It made no sense, but whatever the case he should have been resting and not impeding his recovery.

Fritz suddenly nudged him on the head, bringing him back from his musings. "Are you still there?" he asked. What an odd choice words.

He gave a tiny nod, and even tht tired him. He was so tired, but he would not sleep. Not until Fritz was safe.

"Prussia, are you listening to me?" Fritz said, his breath tickling his ear.

He was too tired to nod again, so he murmured something indistinct. Of course he was listening, Fritz never called him by his country name unless he had to say something important.

"Good. I'm sorry that I have to ask this of you, but I need you to lift that knife into my hand." Fritz sounded uneasy, a darkish orange look.

His heart thudded painfully against his ribcage. _Oh no. . . _he thought, his body starting to tremble. How in the hell was he supposed to do that? He was having a hard enough time keeping his eyes open, let alone lifting his entire arm up above his head...But he had to. He certainly couldn't cut Fritz's bonds. He took a slow breath and tried to gather his strength, and then he dragged his arm into his lap. It was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. His shoulder hurt and his arms felt as if they were weighted down with lead. Fritz started whispering his name again, but he could barely hear it. His pounding heart sent the roar of waves crashing into the shore of his mind, waves of gray and blue that swirled in edges of his vision like a dream, tasting of sweet apples and smelling of coffee. He fought off that tempting world trying to pull him into darkness and lifted his hand upwards. It was slow going—his muscles refused to work—and he often had to catch his finger on a button or a fold in his clothes so he could give his arm a rest. By the time his hand had reached his shoulder he was panting as if he had been running and his vision was starting to flicker.

The waves were growing louder and Fritz's words, whether insults or encouragement, simply faded into the background and became a wind being blown by the sea. At first he could not find Fritz's arm and he had to stretch, but once he found a sleeve that was not his own he grabbed it stubbornly. He had to find Fritz's hand by following the arm, since he couldn't see it, and he pulled his arm ever higher, gripping the knife so hard that he could feel it wailing hotly as it cut into his palm. Please gods don't let him drop it because he would never manage this again.

His strength, which had amazingly gotten him this far, was starting to fail him. He was trembling so hard that only his constant grip on Frederick's clothes kept his arm from falling. _Not now. . . you can't stop now. . . _a voice whispered to him, whether his own or Fritz's he could not tell. Whatever it was it spurred him on. He twisted his body and pushed himself higher using his legs. Suddenly his vision fragmented and the pain made his eyes come loose and rocket around the insides of his skull like two crazed marbles. Even though he could not see he could still feel, and he continued to reach up, up, _up. _His broken leg crackled as if lightning had just shot through it and past the pain he could feel the knife slipping out of his grip. He tried to hold it tighter, but it vanished from his hand. He cried out in frustration and denial, refusing to believe that he could have failed now after all that he had done. He wanted to grab it but he was falling.

A final spasm of ginger pain wracked his senses and then he knew no more.

* * *

><p><em>"How long has it been?"<em>

_"Three weeks, two days, and probably nine or something hours."_

_". . . Your Majesty, shouldn't you think of. . . putting him in a home or something?"_

_"Oh? Do elaborate, if you would please."_

_"Your Majesty, forgive his boldness. He's young and —"_

_"That's enough, Marshal Keith. While your defense of your troops is admirable, his boldness made him speak out first."_

_"Yes, Your Majesty. I ask that you do forgive my boldness, but I think it simply must be said. If General Beilschmidt has lain there for three weeks and has yet to awaken, then why do we still linger here? It is more than likely that he will never wake up, so why are we letting him become a burden?"_

_"He saved my life."_

_"No, Your Majesty, _you _saved your life when you cut your bonds and climbed out of that window, God knows how you managed it in your condition and the window being on the second floor of the house."_

_"And I would not have managed it at all if he had not given me his knife! I had been in that house for two days and would have remained there even longer if he had not found out where I was."_

_"It is a most commendable action, surely, but he would not be laying there at all if went to General Schwerin's search party the moment he found you. Yet he got captured and was half-killed because he lingered."_

_"He did not _linger. _He did not call get help for the same reason that I did not at first, he was captured before he had the chance to. You cannot fault him for that, use your brain man!"_

Voices. Voices that didn't taste or smell of anything, thank gods. The sounds did not bring colors into his stubbornly dark vision and he wasn't feeling anything at the moment. He could hear a lot of people talking, one of them being Frederick. He would recognize that sharp voice anywhere. He tried to focus on what they were saying, and he realized that it was about him.

"We're getting off topic here. What he have to decide now is what to do with him."

"Oh Zieten, not you too!"

"I am neutral on this topic, Schwerin. I am just saying that aruging about what General Beilschmidt _should _ have done is not going to change what happened."

"Unfortunately, he has a point."

"He's not going anywere."

"Your Majesty, be reas—"

"No! I am not about to ship him away to be holed up in god-knows-where for the rest of his life as if he were some sort of embarassment."

"My King, please listen to me. I've seen this before. I had a grandather who was a good, hardworking man, but one day he took a tumble and hit his head. He woke up a few days later but he was never the same man. Had this glassy, blank look in his eyes like a doll's. He did nothing but sit and look out the window all day and didn't speak a word to anyone. He couldn't even put on his boots and refused to eat anything that wasn't served with blackberry jam. My mother tried to take care of him, but he wasted away and died after a few months."

"Be that as it may, Lieutenant, my answer remains the same. It doesn't matter what happens to Gilbert. If he wakes up and wants to look out the window all day, then I shall make sure there is a comfortable chair placed there. If he can't put on his shoes then I will do it for him. If he wants to eat nothing but jam—blackberry or otherwise—then I shall keep the cellars stocked with it! He can be a doddering idiot for the rest of his days but he stays _here!"_

It was a thunderclap of a voice that left a stunned silence in its wake. He felt his breath catch in his throat as he heard Fritz standing up for him. That voice that had hurled diatribes at him like stones had now become his protector and defender. Again people were deeming him useless, but it was not Fritz. His senses were coming back to him; he was lying in a bed, that smell of clean sheets and wood was in the air, and Fritz was somewhere nearby.

"Your Majesty, I—"

"By God, look! Majesty, his hand just moved, I swear it—"

"Yes, I see it! Well, what are you all standing around for? Find Doctor Zahner at once!"

There was a great clattering of footsteps and then everything was silent. A single person came to stand by his bedside and a warm hand closed around his own. "Gilbert?" Fritz asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Can you hear me? Please, you don't have to say anything, just squeeze my hand or—yes, like that!" There was a laugh of wild relief, as if a man being led to the gallows had found out that he had been pardoned at the last minute.

His eyes were too heavy to lift, so he simply squeezed that hand again. That one motion seemed to unleash something within his king and before he had time to register it he was being swept into a tight embrace and Fritz was whispering words that he thought he would never hear. "Brave. . . stout. . . true. . . enduring. . . amazing. . ."

A tiny part of him wondered what those words would have tasted like. They felt like balm, soothing those raw places that Fritz had torn open. He was not a failure, he was not useless. He had saved Fritz's life and that was all that mattered. He squeezed his hand again, silencing Fritz, and managed to crack open his eyes. Pressed against a shoulder, the only thing he saw was the dark blue of a uniform, and even that was too bright for him. "I want jam," he croaked, his voice hoarse from disuse. Unable to stop himself, he curled his lips into a smile.

For a moment he felt Fritz freeze in horror. Laughter then rumbled in Fritz's chest as he realized that Prussia had actually been listening to the conversation from earlier. "Alright, _liebling, _I'll get you some jam." A hand gently stroked the back of his neck, idly playing with strands of his hair.

"Not blackberry," he said, muffling a cough. "I hate that shit."

"Not blackberry," Fritz agreed, hugging him tighter. "I love you, you know."

He wanted to laugh, but that required too much energy. "I love you too," he murmured and closed his eyes, letting himself drift off to Fritz's voice and the two warm arms that were supporting him.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I swear to gods if FF messes up the formatting ONE more time...**

**Anyways, I would like to give a huge thanks to the band Nox Arcana because their creepy music helped me a lot. I swear every time I write with that playing it's awesome XD**  
><strong>I'm actually quite fascinated on the subject of synesthia, and even though I may have screwed it up bad here I thought it was very fun to do. Especially with whumpage and pain and all those sadist things that make me smile.<strong>  
><strong>You know, there actually was an attempt to kidnap Fritz at one point, but it failed because the would-be kidnappers attacked the wrong party and quickly alerted Fritz to their plans. It made me wonder what would happen if it actually had suceeded. That's where the AU-ness comes into play.<strong>  
><strong>There is a backstory to this, and I want my next prompt, Alive, to cover it. I want to write it from Fritz's POV, but here's a question for my dear readers: Do you want me to start the story before or after Prussia finally passed out? Before would equal more info but it would be longer and slower, and after would be faster and mainly on how Fritz escaped. (Before would have that too but some people don't like slogging through a ton of info) Check the poll on my profile~<strong>

**And by the way, funny story: I almost made myself sick when I raided my spice cabinet in search of flavors and smells. After sniffing and tasting about twenty of them I gave myself a massive headache and clogged my sinuses XD**


	9. Alive

**A/N: Since nearly everyone on DA and voted for 'Before,' so I was happy to oblige. XD tTe only thing I can say at the moment is that I did warn you it would be long and you would slog through a lot more info. But all in all I had lots of fun when I wasn't flipping out over how long the story was getting. Writing Fritz was a new and interesting experience, and he showed me bits of himself that I had never considered before. And piling all the guilt on him was really fun, even though I felt quite bad for him.**

**Oh and THIS is the longest prompt now xDD**

* * *

><p><strong>Alive<strong>

It was night again. The same chill that had crept through the house for the past two nights was seeping through the floorboards, causing Frederick to shiver. He wasn't that cold, but the chill tickled his exposed neck and bloodless hands. He clenched and unclenched his fingers and winced as the ropes tying his hands above his head chafed painfully against his raw and bloody wrists. He had learned the hard way that trying to pull his hands free of the rope was absolutely useless.

A harsh laugh came from downstairs, making his stomach flip. So far his captors had not been cruel to him, they gave him food and even talked to him some, but there had been repeated threats that if he tried to escape then he would be punished. He was a bit dubious about that, since he knew that Maria Theresa would want him alive and unharmed. If the news got out that the Austrians had brought harm upon a member of royalty, regardless of whether that member was an enemy or not, it would infuriate the rest of the European courts and isolate Austria from its allies. Yet Frederick wouldn't put it past his captors, who were actually Hungarian. They had killed almost all of his gendarmes after the dragoons had fled.

"_Damn!" he swore as he checked his saddlebags again, trying to be as discreet as possible about it._

_His comment had been whispered, so only Prussia heard it. In a moment the nation had ridden up beside him. "What is it?" he asked in a low voice._

_His irritation was rising, but he kept it in check. "I left something back at the village. We have to go back and get it."_

_Gilbert slowly shook his head. "We can't turn this entire company around. Send an aide-de-camp to go fetch it."_

"_No, it's too important for that." He sighed as Gilbert gave him a questioning look. "It's those marching plans you and I were going over. If they fall into the wrong hands then the Austrians will know where the army is and where we intend to go."_

_Gilbert bit his lip in thought, worrying over the matter. "I know what they look like," he said after a long minute. "I'll go get them." He saw Frederick's look and went on. "No one will question why I'm riding back, and I'm sure that kindly landlord will hand anything over without a fuss." A smile threatened to make itself known at his words._

_Frederick didn't like the idea, but he knew that Gilbert could take care of himself. "Hurry back," he murmured. With all of those Hungarian bandits about it was dangerous to be alone for too long._

_The soldier grinned widely at him. "I'll be back before you even miss me," he promised with a wink and wheeled his horse around, trotting back the way they came at a brisk pace._

_That was the last time Frederick had seen him._

He still remembered that smile, and the way Prussia spoke, as if he existed in a world where failure did not happen. Too unawesome to exist, as Gilbert would have put it. In a way, Frederick was glad that Gilbert had not been with them when they had been ambushed. In hindsight it was rather ironic, him worrying over Gilbert being attacked by Hungarian hussars when in reality _he_ was the target. At least Gilbert had been safe and unharmed. But for how long? He knew that his kidnappers would at the very least want him for ransom, but they could also have him issue orders to have his army withdraw. His was king, and not a single man in Prussia could disobey his orders, and he could bring his country to his knees if he wished. The thought made him sick.

Frederick swallowed and glanced out the window. The moon wasn't even visible. It had been terribly cloudy for the past few days, with the weather letting up only occasionally. It was so unlike that one day when the sun had beaten down on them mercilessly.

_The heat made the smell of blood and gunpowder nauseating. All around him were the screams of horses and men and the crack of gunfire. Above the writhing melee a single voice shouted out: "Don't harm the King! Kill the rest of this rabble but if you so much as cut him I'll flay all of you!" _

_He drew his sword and swung, daring anyone to venture too close. He swept his eyes around, looking for an opening, but the great mass of Prussians and Hungarians made it impossible to see. Suddenly an aide rode up next to him. "Your Majesty, you have to escape! Our lives mean little to us, but if you were captured—" his sentence choked off into a gurgle as a bullet caught him in the chest and sent him tumbling off his horse._

_Frederick stabbed out with his sword, slipping it under a Hungarian hussar's arm and plunging it into his side. He yanked it back out and parried a blow that came from his right, all the while trying to keep his horse under control. It wanted to bolt, and if it did that now then it would ride straight into the crossfire and kill them both. Around him were only two gendarmes, the rest were caught in battle and most of the dragoons were now in full flight. He cursed them and held onto his sword tightly. A group of hussars rushed at him and his gendarmes met most of them, but two slipped by and came right at him._

_He quickly drew his pistol and shot, hitting one in the chest, and feinted with his sword, distracting his other attacker. For a few tense moments their swords clashed, neither of them gaining an edge on the other, and then he scored a deep cut in the hussar's side. It wasn't enough to seriously harm him though, and he was about to strike again when his horse screamed and fell, pierced by a well-aimed bullet. The king hit the ground with an impact that jarred his teeth and sent his sword flying out of his hand. For a moment he saw nothing but the blue sky and the surrounding hills of Wartha Valley, and then he was surrounded by hussars. _

"_You're our prisoner now, Your Majesty," one of them sneered. At least, that's what Frederick thought he said. The man spoke even worse German than he did._

_He tried to keep a calm façade, even though he barely believed that this was real. "Regrettably," he answered in a steady voice. All around him the sounds of battle were fading away._

"_Perhaps for you," the Hungarian replied, switching to French. "Now, get up. We have a place to take you to."_

He wondered whose house they had stolen. It was far too nice and furnished to be a random hut or outpost that had been set up for the sole purpose of keeping him prisoner. Someone had been kicked out of their home so the Hungarians could use it. Again he sighed and wondered how he could escape, even though that possibility was nonexistent by now. Heading downstairs was right out of the question, since that was where all of his kidnappers were staying, and the window was on the second floor. Unless there was a way to somehow climb down the side of the house then the only thing he would accomplish by climbing out the window would be falling and breaking his leg. Oh, what a _fine _joke that would be, to ingeniously free himself only to rush headlong out of the nearest escape route and cripple himself. He imagined himself lying in the middle of that pretty garden in front of the house, unable to go anywhere because of his own stupidity. The Hungarians wouldn't even have to organize a search party, just walk outside.

He snorted. No thank you, he preferred staying in here.

Another bout of laughing crawled through the floor, punctuated by cheering. They sounded just like the Prussians playing their drinking games. Hell that was probably what they were doing. If his bonds had been any looser then he could have slipped out of them and escaped while the Hungarians drank themselves into a stupor. But all of that was nonsense from stories. There was never a convenient way of escape; there were no ropes that he been left loose or untied, no key that someone had forgotten to pick up. No knife or sharp object left conveniently within his reach. This was the real world, and he wasn't getting out unless someone freed him.

Frederick sighed and slumped against the wall, then hissed in pain as the ropes stung his flesh. Good _gods _that hurt. He shouldn't have fought and tugged on them for as long as he had; now he barely had any skin left. He bit the inside of his cheek and forced the pain into the back of his mind. He had dealt with worse pain than this, so much worse. He slid his legs closer to himself for warmth and tired not to think about how cold it was becoming. Hopefully the Hungarians would remain in the house for the night, since he knew that the longer he stayed in one place the easier it would be to find him.

Now that he thought about it, he wondered what the others were up to now. No doubt Gilbert and Schwerin were throwing fits and worrying themselves sick. They were always so concerned for his safety, and he knew that Gilbert would take it harder since he had left his king's side right before he would needed him the most. Zieten would scour the countryside, turning over every house, hut, and stone looking for his king and the rest of the population be damned. Leopold would have enough sense to watch the Austrians so they couldn't surprise them with a sneak attack, and Winterfeldt and Old Dessauer would be the only voices of reason. He hoped that Henry was taking the news well, since he was now in charge of the whole army.

He took a deep breath and let it out, trying to calm his racing heart. Whenever he thought about his friends and the army his mouth went dry and his gut knotted. How perfect it would be for the Austrians to turn and smash the Prussians while their king was gone! They had every reason to do it, and Frederick couldn't think of a single good argument against it. For all he knew it had already happened and was still being kept here because his enemies were toying with him. He wouldn't put it past those damned Hungarians.

A noise startled him out of his thoughts. He sat up in alarm, glancing around. It had not come from downstairs, but somewhere in the room. For perhaps the first time Frederick had gotten here the clouds were thin enough to allow the moonlight to shine through the window. It illuminated some of the room, and he saw absolutely nothing with him. The sound came again, a sort of scratching and tapping noise that was coming from. . . the window? Just as he looked over at the window a dark shadow appeared and blocked out most of the moonlight, making his heart leap into his throat. Moments later one of the panels swung open and a figure leaned partially in, its head turning back and forth. Frederick's eyes grew huge because even though the light was now faint he still recognized that silver hair and unnaturally pale skin. "Gilbert?" he whispered, hardly believing his eyes.

The head snapped in his direction. "Fritz?" Yes, it was Gilbert, that voice was unmistakable. "Oh thank gods you're here!" He tried to open the other panel and swore when it stuck.

"How did you find me?" Frederick asked, unable to stop himself. Seeing Gilbert appear quite literally out of nowhere sent his hopes soaring. The rest of the army had to be somewhere nearby, Gilbert would have never ventured far from it.

Gilbert jerked on the window again, then reached over to fiddle with the latch. "It wasn't easy, almost half the damn army has been looking for you for two days." The window finally swung open. "I almost rode right by this spot, but you can say a hunch of sorts stopped me. Just you hang on a sec and I'll—" A shot rang from below, cutting off his sentence. Frederick saw something dark and liquid fly into the air. "Son of a bitch," Prussia snarled and yanked out his pistol, retuning the fire.

The crack of the gun made him jump. "Great, now the whole countryside knows you're here!" Frederick said, his heart dropping just as quickly as it had risen.

"Can't help that," Gilbert replied and tried to slide into the room, but two more shots sounded, one right after another. He saw Gilbert jerk and pressed a hand to his leg, and it suddenly crumpled underneath him as if it could no longer support his weight. He crashed into the sill before he fell, leaving the window open and empty. Frederick just blinked in surprise, at first not registering that Gilbert had just _fallen out of the second story window._

His stupefaction did not last very long. Very soon there more shouts and more gunfire and then a high, wailing scream. Someone cursed and he heard the clash of swords, followed by another scream and then a loud _crack _drifted through the air. He shuddered, recognizing that sound from his childhood. At once the noise outside was silent, and he heard someone rushing up the stairs. The door to his room slammed open moments later and light invaded the room. The hussar that appeared immediately looked at him, and slumped with relief when he saw that their captive was still quite tied up. The man soon noticed the open window and strode across the room and was about to shut them when he paused and leaned out the window. "What the hell are you doing?" He screamed out at whoever was below.

"What does it look like?" Came the reply, and past it Frederick could hear more cracks of breaking bones.

"Stop that at once!" the hussar roared. "Or by God I'll come down there and thrash the daylights out of you!"

"It's just his hand—"

"That doesn't matter!" The hussar yelled back and slammed the windows so hard that it was a wonder that they didn't break. He set his candle down on the table so he could the latches together with a piece of rope that he brought with him and ran back out, muttering under his breath. The door slammed and soon his footsteps faded. He had left his candle behind.

What were they _doing _to Gilbert? Frederick felt himself trembling and he tried to tell himself that it was the cold. The temperature in his body seemed to have plummeted within the last minute, but he didn't bother to wonder why. It was the room. That was all. He heard the door downstairs slam open (what was with all of the door slamming? Did the Hungarians not know how to use doorknobs?) and there were voices yelling angrily, the floor muffling what they were saying. He heard the hussar's voice from before, angrily yelling in such a manner that the Prussians would have been envious, and then there were footsteps up the stairs. Their voices became clearer.

"I say we just kill the bastard and be done with it!"

"Absolutely not! Look at what he's wearing you blasted fool! The gloves, the coat, the medals, he's a damned officer! I'll bet my sword that he's a general too, look at the coat! Think of it, if we have both their king and a high-ranking general then the Prussians will surely bow to our terms."

"Have you lost your mind Gaál? Just look at what he did to Erdélyi and Tamás and Szabo! God knows if Szabo will even walk again; are you just going to ignore them?"

"Of course not, but he's more useful to use alive than dead."

"He's dangerous!"

"Look at his head, do you think he'll be able to do anything with the knock Józsa gave him? I'm surprised he wasn't killed. He's not getting up."

"Then he'll be useless to the Pr—"

The voices were right outside the door, and it swung open to reveal four hussars, all carrying a terribly familiar body between them. They shuffled in and carelessly dropped Gilbert onto the floor, where he landed with a boneless thud. His hair and clothes were matted with blood. He wasn't moving. The hussars ignored Frederick completely, instead leaning over Gilbert as if waiting for him to suddenly spring up an attack them. "Shouldn't we at least tie him up?" One of the hussars asked at last.

The leader rolled his eyes but dig his hand into his pocket anyway. "Oh fine, but I'm not wasting any rope on him." He drew out a handkerchief and knelt down, seizing Gilbert's hands—one of which was covered in blood—and tying his wrists together with two tight knots. "There, even if he gets up, which I doubt, he won't be going anywhere." He stood up and turned, giving Frederick a mock salute. "I hope he keeps you good company, Your Majesty," he said and left, laughing with his comrades.

"Go to hell." Frederick snarled, but he wasn't sure if they heard him. The door shut and their footsteps faded back downstairs. After a moment he turned to the still body which had been so casually dumped onto the floor. "Gilbert?" he asked, trying to keep his voice quite in case the Hungarians were listening.

He got no response. Gilbert was terrifyingly still. Even as Frederick watched, a thick puddle of blood started to form underneath his head. The room was so silent that he could hear drops of it pattering against the floor. It spread across the floor like some sort of army, creeping forward and claiming more territory as its own. "Gilbert," he said again, his fear increasing with every second. He tried to see where Gilbert was injured, but his nation was lying on his side and his back was facing him, and he could see nothing. The king could feel his breathing growing erratic, and he tried to keep it under some control. He could smell the blood in the air, thick and cloying. There was so much of it, what if Gilbert had been—

He cut that thought off before it could begin. No, he couldn't have such thoughts now. Gilbert had been through worse, just like he had. He had gotten up after the worst of injuries and had laughed it all off, saying that he was too awesome to be brought down by such things. Frederick couldn't start doubting his country now, especially after he had only seen him for all of three minutes. "Gilbert, for the love of heaven will you answer me?" he hissed, his frustration seeping through. He couldn't even tell if Gilbert was breathing. He stared at the blood on the floor numbly, watching it spread so slowly, sapping the life from Gilbert's veins. With a jolt he realized that Gilbert still had to be bleeding, and dead things did not bleed.

At once his hopes were renewed and he leaned forward, ignoring his flaming wrists. It took a few moments, but he finally detecting the faint rise and fall of Prussia's breathing. Good. But, was he awake enough to hear him? "Prussia," he whispered, at once trying to be loud and soft at the same time. Gilbert always responded to his country name.

Except for this time. This time he was as still and silent as a statue.

Frederick wasn't one to give up though. "Prussia. . . _Prussia,_" he repeated, clenching his hands. He _needed _Prussia to get up. A plan was formulating in his head, an insane one, but it was the first one he had in days. He knew without a doubt that Prussia still had a weapon on him somewhere, for he always did. Even if the Hungarians had searched him, they would never have dreamed of looking for that clever fake heel on his boot that hid one of his countless knives. He could use that to free himself, that was, if Prussia could get close enough for him to use it. "Gilbert, wake up," he ordered, wondering if Gilbert could even hear him.

He had been watching and listening so intently that he noticed right away when something changed. Gilbert's breathing became shallower, much more deliberate. Oh, he was awake alright. Frederick felt another fit of trembling coming on, both from the growing cold and the alarm in his chest. Did Gilbert _not _know the danger that they were both in? Why wasn't he getting up? "Blast it, man, wake up!" he snapped, his patience growing thin.

He saw Gilbert move, just a twitch. Then a sound reached him, so soft and faint that at first he didn't hear it. It was a pathetic, timid whimper. He felt his breath stop. _Gilbert. . . _he thought, unable to believe that that pained noise had just come from his precious nation. He must have truly been hurt. For a moment he felt a pang of guilt, then he banished it angrily. Injured or not, weak or not, he had to get Gilbert to _move. _An idea suddenly came to him, and it made him sick. It was horrid, awful, but it would work. He did not want to do it. He had to. He took a deep breath and tried to summon his courage and wipe away his fears; put on a mask, like he had done for most of his life. _Gilbert, please forgive me, _he thought, releasing his breath in a trembling sigh. He took another breath. "Pah!" he spat out, trying to inject as much venom into his voice as he possibly could. "You're useless to me."

The effect was total and immediate. Frederick saw Prussia move again, a full-bodied flinch that brought another, louder whimper forth. He watched as Gilbert curled slightly into himself, as if trying to hide from the words. A piece of his heart froze and broke off in his chest painfully. "Look at yourself, lying there like a rag," he went on forcefully. _It's the only way, it's the only way,_ he repeated the words to himself over and over like a mantra. "You are such a hypocrite. A _liar." _He spat the words out as if they were poison, and they were, burning his mouth and guts. He went for the kill. " 'My King, I will protect you,' you say, but when the time actually comes you lie there, _useless." _

Yes, play the guilt card, that always worked well. A moan split the air, frighteningly loud after all of the whispering. "Hush! They'll hear you!" Frederick said, praying that those downstairs were ignoring them. Another thought entered his head, as if it had been waiting there. "I should have known you would be a liability. I don't even know why I bother with you. " What a lie _that _was! After all, Gilbert had been the only one who found him. He searched his mind for more insults, more hateful words. They were hard to say but they were working.

He thought of his father.

At once his blood went truly cold. God, no wonder the insults came to him so easily. He had years upon years of them store inside his head, literally countless words of abuse that had once cut at his own heart. He knew exactly what to say. "You disgust me," he said, his voice so filled with loathing that even he was surprised. "Coward." He licked his dry lips, wishing that he could somehow calm his racing heart which was making him rather ill. A fit of trembling had seized Gilbert's body, only intensifying his guilt. _Gilbert, just get up. Get up so I can _stop. "Pretending that you're still asleep. You aren't even _trying." _He was running out of words, since most of them were mere repeats of what he had already said. What mattered most to Gilbert? Yet again he remembered his father, an unwelcome intruder to his thoughts. "You call yourself a soldier. You're a disgrace to that name."

Finally he saw Gilbert move a little more, actual purposeful movements instead of the involuntary twitches he was getting. Yes, _finally _he was coming around! Frederick watched excitedly as Gilbert turned his head a little, as if trying to get a better view of the room. But he was far too slow. Time was absolutely of the essence here, and even though Frederick hated to do it, he would still do anything in order to increase his chance of escape. The sheer frustration and guilt of the whole situation welled up inside of his and his vision wobbled and split. Was he _crying? _Instinctively he went to wipe his eyes and the sharp flare of pain in his wrist brought more tears to his eyes. _Stop that! Stop that right now! _A part of him screamed at him, disgusted at how easily he was falling apart. Another part of him was viewing his earlier insults with a critical, disapproving eye. _Oh good job, picking at him while he's down. Don't you think he's in enough pain already? Did you even have to say most of those things? Look at him, he's having trouble just waking up and he does _not _need you making things worse! _He pushed away both of those things with difficulty.

"That's it, lie there. Let a little knock on the head stop you." He swallowed the lump in his throat and wondered if his plan was just stupid. Perhaps he placed too much trust in Gilbert, he was fallible after all—_No. _"Never mind that both of our lives are at stake." If knowing that his king was in danger didn't rouse him, then nothing would.

Gilbert raised his head, actually raised it a little. Then he tried to get up. But he had barely moved when his body spasmed in pain and a harsh gasp of pain filled the corners of the room. Just like that Gilbert went limp, unconscious again, undoubtedly. Frederick stared, dumbfounded by what he had seen. He had tried to stand up, _Gilbert had tried to stand up, _and he couldn't. "Come on Gilbert, you can do it. Just crawl over here." No response. "Idiot!" He growled, and got the same reply. "That's all you are, an idiot! A worthless nothing, undeserving of being a country." His eyes burned and he hurled out more insults, any that he could think of and some that he made up on the spot.

"Now. . ." Gilbert's weak voice interrupted him. "No need—for insults." He sounded so weak and strained that Frederick's guilt briefly came rushing back full force.

He shook his head ruefully. "I'm sorry Gilbert," he said, and he meant every word. "They're the only thing that you've responded to." _And if there was any other way then I would do it. _

Gilbert sighed and didn't respond. The man was silent for so long that Frederick wondered what he was doing, then he saw him moving his arms, bringing them closer to him. He watched with bated breath, hardly daring to let his hopes rise too high. Could Gilbert even untie himself? He had no idea what was going through Gilbert's head, but he trusted him all the same. Another whimper filled the air and Gilbert went limp again. No, that would never do, he was passing out too easily. Frederick barely paused to think before he was speaking, reciting all of the most hateful things he had ever heard, throwing them at the person that he loved. His voice was losing some of its fury and the tears were flowing freely now, rolling down his neck and soaking his collar. Oh how he hated this! This helplessness, these words and abuse that he had to fling out as if he was trying to imitate his father. He was in the middle of a sentence when he noticed that Gilbert was stirring, and he shut his mouth instantly. Gilbert didn't need to hear all of that when he was doing what Frederick wanted him to do.

Thankfully Gilbert did not pass out this time and Frederick could tell that he was trying to free himself using his teeth. The minutes dragged by, slow and agonizing, while Frederick tried to listen for noises for downstairs. They seemed to be getting quieter. Slowly, so slowly, he saw that one of the knots Gilbert was working on had come loose. Immediately the nation went for the second one and soon that was untied as well. "Good, Gilbert, good!" Frederick whispered, his voice barely audible. Prussia didn't seem to hear him.

Now what? Frederick bit his lip in thought. Of course he needed Prussia to come over to him, but how in the world he was to do that was the problem. He heard two loud, deep breaths. Gilbert amazed him by suddenly turning over onto his back, splashing in the puddle of blood. The front of his uniform was also bloody and one of his sleeves was torn, and he noticed that there were boot marks all over his clothes, as if he had been trampled on. Then Gilbert turned to look at him and Frederick saw that one half of his entire face was stained with blood. But the thing that truly shocked him was the blank gaze in his eyes, looking but not really seeing anything. However those eyes locked onto his and Frederick knew that Gilbert was at least partially aware of what was happening. "Gilbert?" he asked softly.

He saw confusion seep into those crimson eyes and Gilbert frowned a little, as if he had been presented with a complex problem. Slowly, he blinked. As if he had suddenly lost interest, Gilbert turned away and lifted his left hand into the light to examine it. He saw blood, blood and. . . bone. The bones in his hand had split through his skin and were sticking up like splinters, twisted and warped. "God. . ." Frederick heard himself say, although that was ludicrous. God had no place in this hellhole. He saw Prussia slowly put his hand back down. Broken hand or not, he still had to move. "Prussia," he said, getting Gilbert to look at him. "Listen carefully to me. I need you to come here." He quietly thumped his boot next to him, hoping that it wouldn't attract those downstairs. For once he saw Gilbert's face change into fear and trepidation. He was having none of that. "Please Gilbert, I know it will be hard," he said, finally giving in and pleading. "But it's the only way we're going to get out of here. If we don't free ourselves, then our captors might use us for ransom, or kill us." He saw his opportunity and grabbed it. He made sure that Gilbert's eyes were on him when he continued. "They will _kill _us, Gilbert. They'll kill me." Alright that wasn't quite true but if it was going to get Prussia to come to him then he'd repeat it all night long if he had to.

Defiance flamed into those eyes, so familiar and welcome that Frederick wanted to laugh in relief. A sigh slipped out of Prussia and after a few moments he used his good hand to grip the bloody floor, then bent his leg upwards. Frederick wondered what he was doing, and then Prussia used his arm and leg to slide himself across the floor. _Yes! Yes, yes! _ Frederick smiled widely as he watched Prussia make his way over to him inch by precious inch, stopping for only moments of rest before pushing on. It was incredible, that endurance and determination. That was why Frederick loved him, he simply never gave up. But then disaster struck. Prussia couldn't see where he was going, and he accidently bumped his head against Frederick's boot. The soldier thrashed in agony, a muffled keen slipping out of his throat as if he were about to scream, and then his eyes rolled back into his head. "No. No Gilbert, get up. _Get up!" _He nudged Gilbert of the back, careful to avoid his head. Gilbert just rolled in the same limp manner from earlier.

He couldn't believe it. Was his chance of freedom being dangled in front of his face only to be snatched cruelly away? Something in him broke and he started speaking again, repeating nearly every single hateful thing he had ever heard his father say and directing them at that still figure by his feet. Gilbert simply would not reply, not even to the things he knew would sting him the worst. What if he had somehow killed himself? He had just bumped his head, but he already had a head wound…the thought of Gilbert being dead drove right into his core like a single knife twisting deep into a wound. His ears were ringing so loudly that he couldn't hear his own words, but he knew that his lips were moving and he had to be speaking whatever came to his mind. He just had to keep speaking, hoping that some deity in the world might be merciful enough to show him that he was wrong, yet again.

"Never," Gilbert suddenly croaked. His eyes were open and half lidded, but the fire in them was back. "Never leave you to die."

He could barely believe his ears, yet it was true. "Gilbert? Oh god, I thought. . . nevermind what I thought." Sentiment had no place here. The only important thing was duty and escape. "We don't have much time. Can you get up?"

Gilbert tried, bless him he tried, but his one good arm could only lift him a few inches from the ground. Frederick granted him mercy and pushed his legs under his body, supporting him. It was awkward and clumsy but he managed to push Gilbert until he was nearly sitting up. He hooked his legs around Gilbert and dragged him closer until he fell back against his chest. He ignored the warm dampness that started to soak through his jacket. "Gilbert," he said, feeling his country go limp again. "_Gilbert." _

"Wait," Gilbert answered immediately, out of breath. "Trying. . . to think."

"Let me do that," Frederick replied. Gilbert just had to do what he said, it had worked well enough so far. "Now, do you remember the knife you once showed me? The one that you said was hidden in your boot?"

"I think so," Prussia replied.

"Good. If you can get it then I can cut these ropes." And that was all that mattered, really. Prussia just needed to get the knife.

"I don't remember how to take the heel off."

That didn't matter. "You showed me how to do it. Just do as I say, trust me." Prussia was silent after that, but he did do whatever he said. Frederick remembered the instructions as clearly as if they had just been recited. He remembered which boot the knife was hidden in, and he remembered how Prussia had showed him to twist the heel a certain way so it came off. The click of the heel detaching was the most glorious sound he had ever heard. Gilbert had gone very still, but his breathing was still far too shallow for him to be passed out. He gently nudged him with his head. "Are you still there?" Gilbert's head moved a little, but he wasn't sure if Gilbert had done that or not. "Prussia, are you listening to me?"

There was a quiet murmur of asset. Frederick swallowed, hating himself for what he was about to force him to do. "Good. I'm sorry that I have to ask this of you, but I need you to lift that knife into my hand." It was the only time he would allow himself to feel some doubt. It had taken Gilbert so much to simply get over here, could he do this one last thing for him? He did not hear an answer, but Gilbert simply moved his arm into his lap. Frederick could hear him choking back little noises of pain. "Come on love, you can do it," he whispered. He couldn't insult him anymore, it would have just been too wrong. He saw the knife in Gilbert's hand, polished so brightly that it reflected the firelight into his eyes. That one sliver of metal was his salvation and he couldn't tear his eyes away from it, like a starving beggar seeing a plate of food. He heard Gilbert's breathing turn into harsh pants, as if the effort was physically painful for him. He tried to keep up the stream of encouragement, but he was barely paying attention to what he was saying, too focused on this knife to care." Very slowly Prussia's hand made its way towards his own, often gripping his sleeve for support. It was so close that Frederick had to resist the urge to just grab his hand, for he was far too afraid of messing this up. This was the only chance they would get.

Suddenly Prussia's hand was nearly in his and he seized the initiative. Quick as a snake, he grabbed the handle of the knife and slid it out of Prussia's hand. To his surprise he felt Prussia's hand chasing him, trying to grab the knife back, but his body shuddered in pain and a cry of pain was torn out of his throat. It was an awful sound that hit Frederick like an artillery round, and then Gilbert fell back against him, still once more. "Gilbert?" he asked. He didn't even feel him breathing. "Oh my god…" For a moment he stared, unsure of what to do, then he looked upward. He had the knife, but he was holding it the wrong way. Carefully, he twirled his fingers, turning the knife as delicately as if he were holding his flute again, until the blade was pressed against the ropes. It was awkward holding the knife in such a way, but he'd be damned if he was going to let it go. He worked it back and forth, feeling it slowly bite into his restraints.

He nearly cut his wrist at one point, but the ropes snapped and his hand came falling down. At first he couldn't feel a thing because his hands were numb, but he soon was working on the second wrist and that was free in seconds. Then he set the knife on the floor beside him and carefully lifted Gilbert off of him and laid him down. "Gilbert?" he asked again, bending over him worriedly. There was so much blood on him, it was incredible. He gently slapped his cheeks. "Please, get up. Come on Gilbert, _please." _His hand was trembling slightly as he laid two fingers against Gilbert neck, feeling for a pulse. His fear skyrocketed when he felt nothing and he placed his ear on Prussia's chest, listening. After a few terrified moments he felt the faint beat of his heart and his breath came out in a rush. It was weak, unlike any other times that Frederick had heard it. Gilbert couldn't get up, he couldn't follow him.

The realization was cold, cold as ice. The only way Gilbert was going to get out was if he carried him. Downstairs was still out of the question, and only divine intervention could allow him to carry Gilbert out of that window. He had to leave him behind. He sat up and stared at him hopelessly. First he insulted him, and now he was just leaving him behind like a piece of trash. He bent back down and kissed him on the forehead, then kissed his lips, no matter how unresponsive they were. "I'll come back for you," he whispered. It was absurd the think that Gilbert could still possibly hear him, but saying it out loud made it more real somehow. "I swear on it. If I never do anything else I _will _return." Then he stood up and went over to the window. Untying the rope was the easiest part, and he swung the windows open carefully so they didn't make any noise. A gust of wind blew in and snuffed out the candle.

Great, just great. At least the moon was out for good it seemed. He leaned out and peered into the half-lit gloom. There was a rose trellis standing right below the window, with half of the roses hanging off limply. So _that _was how Gilbert climbed to the window. He must have been a damned monkey. Frederick carefully climbed into the window and looked down. There was light shining out of the window below and quite clearly showed the trampled earth and the dark, wet stains on it. Nope, the ground was definitely too far away for him to jump. He sighed and turned back to the trellis. It was insane, but no less insane than whatever had happened earlier. Don't think, thinking too much would make him fearful, and if he ever wanted to get out of here then he needed to get rid of his fears.

So he jumped. Not very far, more like an incredibly long step than anything. He slipped and almost fell off of the trellis but instinct saved him and he grabbed the cold metal so tightly that his hands hurt. Good _gods _what was he doing? "Dammit," he muttered before carefully making his way back down. His mind was running miles every second, thinking in that delightfully quick way that many so admired him for. He couldn't climb all the way back down, that would put him in the light and anyone who looked out the window would have seen him. He bit his lip and looked beyond the garden. "Dammit," he said again and thumped his forehead against the trellis.

Gilbert had gone through so much to make him get out of that house. The least he could do was return the favor to bring him back. He braced himself and leaped off the trellis, completely passing over the light and hitting the shadowy ground. His breath was driven out of his body in a harsh cough and at the same moment laughter exploded from inside, covering the noise. He carefully got to his feet and stepped away, brushing off his clothes and pulling his jacket tighter around himself. It was colder than he expected. A shudder wracked though him and he looked back up, at the dark square in the house that yawned open like the maw of some horrible beast, where Gilbert still lay inside. "Adieu," he murmured, turning away guilty. "Adieu, for now. I will return."

If Gilbert was even alive by the time he got back.

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><p><strong>AN: JESUS CHRIST STORY Y U NO SHORTER? ლ(ಠ益ಠლ)  
>Thank gods I have Word again, or else this would have been covered with mistakes XD<br>Okay, I like long stories and all, but I DON'T like it when they turn out to be nearly three times longer than I intended. The sad part was that I actually cut off the real ending to this story and I'm going to put it up on another prompt XD  
>For those of you who don't know, a rose trellis is like a metal cylindergate thing that is used to grow climbing roses. I have one in my front yard and I did go climb it to see if Fritz's idea would actually work. *sigh* The things I do for accuracy XD**


	10. Christmas Special

**A/N: Because it's the holidays, I had to be nice and write a Christmas fic for my dearest readers, even though I've already done two XD My favorite Yule gift had to be my brand new laptop (which I explicitly told my parents was the ONLY thing I wanted this year - "If you don't get me anything else then at least get me a laptop!") and to celebrate I wrote this ficlet completely on it. Because I'm feeling nice I input lots of slash ^^**

**I didn't make it a oneshot because I'm lazy like that XDD By the way, this takes place a few hours before "Winter."**

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><p>The snow was starting to fall again, a soft sprinkling that was only disturbed by the slightest breath of wind. It would have made excellent weather to romp around in, but many were deciding to stay inside on Christmas Eve. It was still light outside, even though the sun had vanished not too long ago, and almost everyone was taking the advantage to party, even the lavish court of Berlin. It was far from midnight as yet the dancing and drinking was under full swing. Here and there were scattered conversations on whatever topic pleased the speaker, ranging from politics to philosophy, but the conversation being held by the two people standing just outside the main doors was by far the most interesting one.<p>

"You must be joking," King Frederick said to the country he ruled, giving him an utterly bewildered look. Many would have been jealous at the albino's ability to throw his ruler completely off stride, which many had attempted and failed to do in the past.

"I'm not," Prussia replied with a grin. "It sounds a hell of a lot more fun than being stuck in there for the rest of the night, doesn't it?" He waved towards the crowds inside the ballroom; loud, stuffy, noisy, that's all it was. That's why he had politely asked his king for a word in private and extricated him from the gawkers that had been around him.

Frederick glanced back at the room, then back at Gilbert. "Being stuck in the cold for however long on some utterly pointless and impractical task, no it does not," he replied coolly.

Instead of being put off like most would, Gilbert just scooted a little closer to his king. "It's not pointless, and it will have a practical use later on," he promised in his smoothest voice. He said no more than that and waited for Fritz to simply take the bait.

Blue eyes narrowed at him. Fritz was used to such games, having grown up with them all his life. "Mind sharing?" he asked.

"Nope. You have to come and build it with me first," Gilbert replied quickly.

"You want me to go outside with you and build a snowman, and yet you won't even give me a good reason why?" Frederick scoffed. "No thank you." He started to turn to walk back inside, but a hand on his elbow stopped him.

"I told you already," Prussia said, stepping closer until he was right beside him. "Fun. You don't know what fun is?"

Fritz sighed and tried not to roll his eyes, although he sorely wanted to. "Of course I know what fun is. It's—"

"—what happened in our rooms last night?" Prussia quipped, chuckling when he saw Frederick's warning glare. Thankfully no one was close enough to overhear him.

"Yes, that would be a good example," Fritz said lightly. "However that is quite different from building a snowman. My answer is still no. Now let's go back inside before someone misses us."

Gilbert pulled on his gloves, making sure that they were snug and tight around his hands. "You can go, but I'm not," he said.

Fritz glanced back at him. "And, pray tell, why not?"

Gilbert gave him a look that implied that the answer should have been obvious. "I said I wanted to build a snowman," he said. "I was only asking you to come because I would have liked some company. I'm still going to build it." He gave a small, two-fingered salute. "Enjoy your party." Then he turned smartly on one heel and started striding for the outside doors.

That cheating, manipulating. . . Frederick ground his teeth together and turned to go back inside, and paused when he saw all of the raucous laughter and overheard snatches of meaningless subjects. He sighed and rubbed his temple. He had to go back in there, since this was a party for the whole court and it would have made a terribly bad impression if the king was not there. But everything was so loud and boring; Gilbert and Wilhelmine had been the only two reasons why he stayed behind instead of going off to his rooms for a little solitude. And now Gilbert was leaving him and Wilhelmine was currently surrounded by no less that fifteen people.

He couldn't go back in there and face the whole court by himself. He might go mad. But he also did not want to go outside into that freezing weather.

"Damn you," he muttered, turning around and quickly making his way down the hall towards the rapidly retreating figure. He wasn't mad at Gilbert, but rather himself for allowing him to be manipulated so easily.

"Ah, so you decided to come after all!" Gilbert said cheerfully when Frederick appeared beside him.

"Just shut up and let's go build your silly snowman," Fritz said, scowling as Gilbert opened a door and let in a blast of cold air. It was still light enough to see by, although barely.

"Tsk, so grumpy! Where's your Christmas spirit?" Prussia laughed, ushering him outside and leading him into the ankle-deep snow. Just to make sure his leader wouldn't have second thoughts and turn back, he hooked their arms together and all but dragged him deeper into the field of snow that blanketed the gardens.

Fritz tugged on the arm around him, but he might as well have been fighting against a statue. Desperate, he glanced around, but he didn't see another soul. Well at least there wouldn't be any rumormongers about. He was pulled deeper outside until they were nearly fifty feet away and well on their way into the gardens. Prussia kept looking around as if trying to find a specific spot, then he gave a cry of joy when he saw a cart of evergreen trees sitting beside a path, seemingly abandoned. "There we go, this will be an awesome place," he said, stopping right beside it.

"We're building a snowman, not decorating a Christmas tree," Fritz replied in puzzlement.

"I know," Gilbert said, releasing him and sitting right down in the snow. He started scooping together huge armfuls of loose snow and patted them into a pile. "Come on, help me."

For a moment Frederick simply stood there, contemplating on walking away. However no matter how fast he ran he knew that Gilbert would easily catch him. Vowing to make his nation pay for this, he carefully sat down across from him and started scooping snow as well. "You still haven't told me how this will be useful," he said.

"Be patient!" Gilbert said with a laugh. "It will all become clear in the end, young apprentice." He reached out and patted his king on the head and was rewarded with a large handful of snow thrown at his face. He sputtered and threw a handful back and for a good half-minute snow was flying back and forth between the small space and it ended with Prussia yelping as miniscule amounts of snow got under his uniform on onto his skin.

Satisfied at getting his small bit of revenge, Frederick was in a lot better mood. He idly continued to help with the construction of the snowman's base, which was actually turning out to be quite large. "Why does this have to be so big?" he asked, gently patting it. It was nearly as wide as the both of them standing side by side.

Gilbert looked up with a slightly lewd grin. "You know I like big things," he said, snickering at the slight blush that appeared on his king's cheeks.

Without missing a beat, Frederick replied, "Despite your tendency to choke?" He burst out laughing at Prussia's thunderstruck face.

"I do not choke, you lying bastard!" Gilbert gasped, scooping up two handfuls of snow and chucking it right at his king. His face merely turned redder as Fritz continued to laugh.

"No, but your face was hilarious." Fritz said, laughing again when Gilbert huffed and turned away from him, pointedly ignoring him. Seeing him get all flustered was too precious. He brushed the snow from his shoulders and watched Gilbert patting the snow in place, then scooping up more for the middle base. After a few minutes of silent watching he once again started to scoop up snow and help him pat in tightly. Gilbert gave him a look but said nothing.

The snowman was turning out to be quite large and they had to stand up to finish the middle section, which came up to Frederick's shoulders. It was standing next to the side of the cart, so the cart and the snowman formed a rudimentary corner of sorts. As the minutes passed Frederick began to grow worried, since he knew that any moment their presence would be missed and someone would end up looking for them. What a sight that would be, trying to explain to his guests why in the world he was outside during a snowfall building a _snowman, _of all the things in the world. The things he did for Gilbert.

When they finally placed the head on top the snowman was taller than the both of them, and broader. Fritz could not believe how much effort it took just to pile snow together like that. The exercise had left him pleasantly warm, even to the tips of his fingers. "It doesn't have a face," he said at last, staring at the blank piece of work in front of them.

"It doesn't need one," Gilbert said, taking off his gloves.

Frederick gave him a look. "Well, going out here and building this absurd thing was your idea. Are you not even going to finish it?"

"Finishing it wasn't part of my plan." Now there was certain predatory gleam to Gilbert's eyes that made Frederick take a wary step back.

"Your plan?" he repeated.

"Yep," Gilbert said, looking incredibly pleased with himself. "You see, I've had to you all to myself. And if you will notice," he gestured to the snowman, "we are now hidden from the windows of the palace." Then the albino surprised him by putting his hands on his face and drawing them into a kiss.

To say he was shocked was an understatement, but he had lived with Prussia long enough to know that you had to be used to surprises. He kissed back and he felt Gilbert pushing him until his back hit the cart. "Awfully elaborate plan you have here," Fritz murmured. "Whatever happened to simply finding a room somewhere?"

"Now where's the fun in that?" Prussia asked and kissed him again. It was a few minutes before he spoke. "Besides, we are much more alone out here than in there."

Well now, he couldn't refute that logic. He chuckled and fisted his hands in Prussia's jacket, then abruptly pushed him down into the snow. The nation gasped as the snow stung his face, but his lips were captured again and he felt his face heat up. Fritz knelt down and eased himself into a comfortable position, gently straddling Gilbert's stomach. He traced his fingers along Gilbert's jacket, playing with the buttons and flicking them teasingly, causing Gilbert to whine a little. He grinned into the kiss and suddenly felt Prussia's hands slipping into his own jacket, digging into the back of his shirt and pulling him down until he was practically lying on top of his nation. Then, being the ever-demanding lover that he was, Gilbert threaded his fingers into the back of his head and held him firmly in place so he could not escape.

Not that he was going anywhere anyways.

He pressed two fingers against Gilbert's jaw, tilting his head up at a more convenient angle so he could kiss him deeper. Prussia opened his mouth under him and greedily took him in, sliding their tongues against each other in a way that made electricity shoot from his head to his toes. He managed to break away, ignoring Gilbert's needy moan, and yanked the pale man's cravat down so he could bite and suck on that one spot that made Prussia thrash and keen. Fritz tried not to laugh as he felt the body beneath him jerk and buck; he knew that he would leave a mark on that delicious white skin.

"Fritz…" Gilbert panted, his breath hot against his ear. Wandering hands traced his spine, his neck, ran through his hair and nearly pulled out his braid. Then at once they stopped. "Did you hear that?"

Frederick mumbled something inaudible through the mouthful of skin he was still sucking on. A few seconds later he heard it too. "Frederick! Get your hands off of our nation and come join us for the toast! You're supposed to host it!"

As much as he loved his older sister, at the moment the thing he wished for the most was for her to simply vanish somewhere. He sighed though his nose and very slowly sat up. "What makes you think I have my hands on him?" he called out steadily, trying to ignore the hands that gripped his hips and the thumbs that gently skimmed over them.

"I'm not an idiot, dearest brother," Wilhelmine called out again, the voice getting closer. Not quite close enough to find them though since he knew that Wilhelmine would have been even more embarrassed than himself if she walked in on the both of them. "Now come on, I've been running out of excuses to give for your absence."

Frederick glared at Prussia, who was grinning amusedly. _This is all your fault, _Frederick mouthed at him and he felt Gilbert laugh. One of his hands gently slid along his pants, skimming over his pelvis. He slapped it away. Suddenly Gilbert sat up and almost sent him into the snow, but two strong hands grabbed him and Gilbert leaned closer, licking him from his neck to his ear. He sucked in a breath as that wicked tongue traced the shell of his ear, hot and stimulating. "S-Stop it," he whispered and bit his hand to stop himself from crying out as teeth latched onto the skin below his lobe.

"Forgive me, My King," Prussia growled into his neck. "But I am not in the mood to go back to the party just yet. In fact, I'm feeling quite…unsatisfied at the moment."

Oh he could tell. He knew exactly what was pushing against his leg. "We are not _going _back to the party," he growled back, yanking Prussia away from him by his hair. He kissed him again, messily. "After the toast, I am going back to my quarters. I expect you to be there no less than ten minutes after."

"Frederick!"

"I'm coming!" he yelled back.

"Done," Gilbert said, nibbling on him a little before pushing him away. "Come on, _mein Schatz, _the sooner you do your thing the sooner we can have our fun."

Fritz snorted and stood up, brushing the snow from his clothes and combing his hair back into place. He paused when he felt that some of his curls had been pulled loose. He glared at Gilbert, still sitting down and smiling at him like a mischievous child. "Oops." The nation said, not the least bit remorseful.

"We are going to have a talk later," Fritz said, tucking some of his hair behind his ears. He hoped it wouldn't show too obviously. "A long talk."

Gilbert laughed and pushed himself up. "Fritz, I don't intend to let you _talk _for quite a while," he purred, leering at him.

He had no reply to that, so he simply pulled his hat lower down his head and turned, stomping out from behind their cover with Gilbert following and laughing behind him.

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><p><strong>AN: Originally this had something to do with Christmas trees, but I couldn't for the life of me make it work the way I wanted so I wrote about snowmen instead ^_^ I don't know why I turned into such a tease lately, but it's there XDD Gods I loved writing this. It would be so like Gilbo to create such a needlessly elaborate plan XD  
>And I think Wilhelmine knew about their relationship. If Fritz or Gilbert didn't tell her then she found out on her own. She was a smart girl. <strong>

**If you want to go read some more awesome Fritz/Prussia stories then look up Arya May's "Together We Fall." It's a gorgoeous story that's a wonderful read.**


	11. Forest - Image

**A/N: For once I have nothing much to say up here XD Imagine that, me shutting up for once. :P Anyways, I'm kind of surprised that I typed these up so quickly, but I guess the holidays do that to me. I have to say, this has to be my most diverse chapter yet. The topics are all over the place ^^**

**I'll say this right now though: I. Love. Image.**

* * *

><p><strong>Forest<strong>

Some thought that they were dark and foreboding. Harsh spires that gutted from the ground like the ribcage of Gaia, their interlocking leaves and branches creating a shadow world that turned the ground into a black carpet and muffled all noise. But that was only at night. During the day they were quieter than a church. The most distant noises were nearly inaudible and only your thoughts could fill the silence. Other found them bright and beautiful, with no influence of man to taint their natural beauty. Some even looked upon them with a certain respect, seeing them as remnants of an older world, still standing and unchanged by time.

To Prussia, they were home.

As a child he had always lived in the forest. Aestii built their actual hut near the sea, but they always ventured out to explore the beaches or the surrounding forest. When he had been young and it had only been him, Toris, and Aestii living together, Aestii often went out to gather supplies and left his children to roam about on their own. Sometimes when he was done he would join them and he would spend hours talking about the animals and the trees and the land. _This is elm, _he would say, placing his hand on one of the trees. _And this is ash. You can tell they're different because of the bark and the leaves. Trees look different from each other, just like people do. _

Prussia liked the forest because it was quiet. Living by the sea, the constant crashing of waves against the shore would nearly drive him mad sometimes. The gentle solitude of the woods always rested his mind and allowed him to _hear _things for once. He used to wander for hours, just listening and trying to remember everything that Aestii taught him about the trees and plants. He never got lost though, because the birds always led him back. They were his constant companions, flitting between the branches and chattering noisily. To him, they were an essential part of the forest, because if there were no birds then it just wouldn't be _right. _

With the birds to help him, he learned how to use the woods to his advantage. He learned how to hide and stalk and vanish without a trace. Whenever Rome came to trade he would stomp off and hide deep in the forest, away from anything that had ever seen the touch of mankind. He would find the tallest tree and climb right to the very top and sit there, watching the birds and the sea. Aestii would always find him later, no matter how well he hid himself, and get him to climb down. It was almost like a game they played, Prussia using his knowledge of the forest to hide and then seeing how long it took for Aestii to find him.

The Germans had little regard for his escapades and were more concerned with teaching him how to fight. Germania's flock turned it into a subject to be mocked and for a while he stopped his pursuits. However, a good warrior should always make weapons out of the most unexpected things, or so Germania told him. He knew that the only way the Germans would listen to him was if they somehow used a forest to defeat their hated enemy—the Romans—so he kept his thoughts to himself and waited for the opportunity to present itself.

It was a good thing that Teutoburg Forest was so much like his old home. That made it ridiculously easy to plan an ambush.

Now that he thought about it, that was probably where the whole "evil forest" concept came from. If anything it did nothing to dispel the rumors. Lines of Roman soldier marching under the green canopy, armor gleaming and capes fluttering, where all would be peaceful and scenic. Then it was broken as the German barbarians fell upon them like vultures to pick their bones clean. The clashes of swords, battle cries, and the screams of the dying echoed across the entire forest that day, and they were only answered by death. By the time the greatest army in the world had broken and fled, the ground was stained with their blood. And it would not have happened if a freak orphan boy from the edges of civilization had not given them the idea.

It was funny how things worked out sometimes.

_Using a forest, we managed to give the mightiest empire in the world a great shining black eye, _Prussia thought to himself, twirling the reins in his hand. His horse snorted and stamped impatiently. "Oh hush," he told her. The last time he had seen such a spirited mare in this bloodline was nearly eighty years ago. The Friesian snorted at him in reply. The kingdom rolled his eyes and looked around at the hilly terrain surrounding them._ And yet here we are, wide open and without cover. Sometimes I wonder if anyone learns anything from history._

He heard Fritz riding up behind him. "Would you suggest that we move?" Fritz asked, noticing how he kept glancing around.

He shook his head in reply. "The land isn't right for any of the idea I would try out," he replied. Once again he scanned the field, watching the two opposing armies. Nope, this particular battle had to be fought in a field. Besides, there wasn't even a forest anywhere near this place.

He could feel Fritz watching him. "Mind sharing those ideas?" the king asked curiously.

"You couldn't use them anyway," Gilbert said. "You need a forest." Fritz did not reply, and waited patiently for him to elaborate. Dammit, he hated it when Fritz did that. "If you hide some people in the forest and wait, you can spring out an ambush any enemy that comes near."

"You could," Frederick agreed, a thoughtful look crossing his features. "However, it would be hard to navigate and artillery would be useless." And yet he did not dismiss the idea entirely. He seemed to be lost in thought but Gilbert knew those sharp eyes and ears were aware of everything that was going on around him. "It does not follow traditional warfare, and we'd be no better than those Hungarian bandits. However," his eyes had a scheming look to them now, "if we want to meet our enemies on even ground them we must fight like them. I think the hussars in particular would enjoy it." He gave his companion a sly smile. "I will drop the idea by Zieten and see what he thinks. Meanwhile, the camp needs checking." He turned his horse and trotted away, not seeing Prussia's smile or his victorious look.

**Master**

The lights were swirling in his vision like dust motes in a beam of sunlight, making a sickening whirl of brightness that made him think that he was floating off somewhere. He licked his lips and grimaced at the taste of his own blood. Something brushed against his tongue and clattered to the floor. A tooth. He winced as a replacement pushed through his gums and fit itself neatly into the gap that had just been created.

Footsteps came toward him. Heavy, slow, deliberate footsteps that he had come to fear over the years. He tried to get up, but his arms would not work. They lay next to his body like empty hoses, completely unresponsive. Each step was another promise of pain, another whisper that penetrated him to his bones. _This is not over yet. Not even close. _The sound of metal dragging against stone made his heart race and his muscles tense as if he were about to run. And that was exactly what he wanted to do: get up and run as fast and far away as he possibly could. Probably climb that damn Wall while he was at it.

_Chink _went the pipe against the floor. His face throbbed as if to answer it. Those steel toed boots came closer and stopped right beside him. He braced himself for the expected kick, but for some reason it never came. All he could hear was the beating of his own heart and then the rustle of cloth as someone knelt down beside him.

"I don't think you quite understand how our relationship works, _DDR," _said that childish, almost singsong voice. "Nor do I think you understand just what I do for you." He felt the massive presence of his captor leaning over him, like a mouse being caught in the shadow of a hawk. There was a pause, one of those heavy ones that he knew Ivan was so fond of.

He wondered what in the world the Russian was playing at _this _time when suddenly he was grabbed by the back of the neck and he couldn't breathe. Ivan had grabbed his scarf—that revolting red one that he always had to wear or else suffer another beating—and was dragging him across the floor like it was a leash, cutting off his windpipe. He tried to gasp and force air into his lungs but nothing came. He kicked and twisted as if to escape but that just made the scarf wind tighter around him. In desperation he clawed at his neck, trying to force his fingers under the fabric but black spots were swirling in his vision and his ears were ringing and _let me go you crazy son of a bitch—_

Before he could pass out Russia grabbed him by the front of his shirt and brought him up, slamming him against the wall. It would have hurt, but he was too busy trying to breathe to think about the pain. Ivan let him cough and pant for a few seconds, but then he stepped closer until their bodies were pressed against each other. His heart nearly stopped and he looked up in terror.

But Ivan didn't seem to be in the mood tonight. In fact, he smiled in amusement as he read the fear in his eyes. "You belong to me Gilbert," he said, leaning forward until only a breath of space separated them. "_I," _he twisted that single word around as if it were a knife in a wound, "own you. I am your master." He shook him a little and he felt his brain rattling around in his skull. "And as your master, I expect a few rules to be followed. A few simple rules, and yet you insist on making things. . .difficult." The word hung around them, heavy and unmovable. A heavier silence stretched on after that. More words came, silent and unheard, crowding around them and waiting to be spoken. Gilbert didn't say anything. He would give Ivan the satisfaction of an argument. The Russian sighed and started to drag him again and he quickly stumbled after the huge man before he could be suffocated.

They went to the small, barred window that occupied a tiny corner of his room. It was no bigger than a breadbox. Russia could look outside with no problem, but it was too high for Prussia to get a good view. To remedy this Ivan simply threw him against the glass and held him there like a doll. "Look down there Gilbert," Ivan whispered, his revolting voice crawling into his ear and making him shudder. "What do you see?"

He saw Moscow, of course. It was below them since Russia had built his house on a hill that overlooked the city, as if it were lording over everything else. The window also faced west, and he knew that Ivan had put him in this room for exactly that reason. He couldn't see the Wall, but he could still feel it, as if a piece of shrapnel was stuck in his heart. "Your city," he muttered listlessly. "_Moskau."_

Ivan's hand tightened when he heard the German pronunciation, but he did nothing else. "I see prosperity," he replied in a low voice. "Think of what I do for you. I feed you, I clothe you, I—"

"Barely," Gilbert interjected before he was slammed into the bars.

"—I made sure that your people were not ground into the dust like so many people think they deserved!" Ivan cut him off with a yell, his voice holding that dangerous tone that said he had better shutup, and fast. "I even let you become a country again. It's a poor substitute compared to your Iron Kingdom, true, but it is better than nothing, _da~?" _He finally put him down and turned him so they were face to face. There was a twisted little smile on his face. "But then again, that's what you've become. A little shell of a kingdom whose name your people no longer even know. There are no Prussians, just Germans, and all of the _Germans_ belong to that adorable little brother of yours." He laughed in delight and for a moment all Prussia saw was red. "But I remember," the Russian went on. "I remember _moi droog, Prussiyah. _The others threw you away and I picked you up, out of the kindness of my own heart. And even though you have been less than grateful, I still keep my kindness. I gave you work to do. I saved some of your cute little scraps of history. It would have been such a shame to let those diaries of yours go to waste. Why, they fill up a whole library!" Prussia felt his heart drop somewhere into his boots. "Other landmarks you had, I let you keep as a show of my goodwill. I did not have to keep that statue of your dear '_alte Fritz,' _as you call him. That beautiful palace in Potsdam, I could have had that destroyed. It takes up so much space and no one uses it anymore, but I know you would be happy if I did that. However I still could, since my usual disciplinary measure seem to have no eff—"

"Please Ivan, for the love of god just _stop." _Prussia almost sobbed, biting his tongue to hold back tears. Ivan's words struck him right in his soul it seemed, just like Ivan knew they would. He had already lost his name, his brother, his country, his _people. _He couldn't lose Fritz as well. Whatever was left of him, anyways. And he knew the threats were serious, and that Ivan could make that happen. Despite all of his mind games and playing and string tugging, Ivan never bluffed.

Russia just laughed. "Why Gilbert, I haven't even done anything! But if our topic displeases you then I shall drop it. But please remember what I said." He patted him on the head reassuringly. Then he fisted his hand and backhanded him across the entire half of his face, right where he had already been hit with the pipe.

The blow was so casual and deliberate that it caught Prussia entirely by surprise. Red spots exploded in his vision and he must have blacked out because he woke up on the floor and he had no memory of falling. He _hurt, _oh gods his face hurt so much. The psychotic bastard, hitting him right where his cheek had already been broken and now it was having to heal itself a second time.

"If I see a repeat of what you did today," Ivan's voice came from above, "then I shall be very unhappy. Please remember that Gilbert. I let you run your country, but if I think that your conduct is becoming unmanageable then I shall have to deal with it; and I know that you won't like it." He turned and left, slamming the heavy door behind him and locking it.

The ex-nation was left on the floor, wincing, as his face knitted up and wishing that he was anywhere but here.

**Mercy**

The train rattled along noisily, jolting the silent occupants back and forth in the cab. A light snowfall swirled outside the windows, hazily obscuring some of the forest that went by. Occasionally a dark shape streaked by, a wolf or a bear in all probability, but other than that the area outside was completely still.

Russia liked to look outside, so he always sat by the window. Gilbert always sat next to Ivan since the large man always insisted it, and Toris sat next to Gilbert. There was no particular reason for this, Ivan just liked to keep his favorite nearby. Estonia and Latvia sat across from them, Estonia pretending read a book and Latvia looked as if he were about to faint out of fear. The poor thing was thrown into hysterics nearly every time Russia was in the same room as him, and even though Russia was currently showing no interest in him at all he was still shaking. It would have been better to send him off to one of the other compartments, but they were already full. Belarus was watching the other satellites in the neighboring cab: Hungary, Bulgaria, the Czech twins, Romania, Poland, and even Ukraine. Needless to say it was one of the most awkward train rides Prussia had ever been on.

The pale man licked his lips and tried not to tap his foot. He didn't mind silences, but it was these tense, strained silences that tried his nerves. They never talked on the train, because they only things they were allowed to talk about were revoltingly superficial or irrelevant, so they just chose to stay quiet. Not to mention he was sitting _right beside _Ivan and he was in easy range if the psycho decided to go off on one of his episodes again. Really, the man was completely nuts. How in the world his Bosses could still understand him was a mystery to Gilbert.

But he wasn't going to complain _too _much. Not when they were on this train, heading for West Germany. He still couldn't believe that they were actually _going _there, since a part of him never thought that Ivan would actually agree to it. It was not without its consequences however. His scalp prickled as he remembered the conversation they had. . .

"Send you to West Germany?" Ivan asked in surprise as he read the very orderly and professional document that Gilbert had handed him. He laughed and put it down. "No. Absolutely not."

"Russia," Gilbert replied in his most even and polite tone. "I must be there to represent my country. It would reflect badly if I could not be there to give a sense of national pride to my team."

"A country does not _need _to show up at the tournament," Ivan replied, picking up his pen and writing again. "And I'm sure you prepared a cute little speech to give to me, no doubt to be delivered in a heartbreaking fashion, but my answer remains the same."

He felt his heart sinking. "Russ—" he began again.

"_Nyet."_

"But—"

"_Nyet! _Do I have to resort to your pig language for you to understand? _Nein!" _He looked up and Gilbert saw that he was angry. Truly angry, not that concealed anger that he hid behind sweet words and a sweeter smile, but a hard-mouthed, narrowed eyes anger.

A few days ago he would have left it at that. He would have nodded and left, as dejected as a whipped dog. But that was days ago, and he had had quite a while to think about his decision. He hadn't realized until recently just how _much _he wanted to go to Germany. To see the Wall. . . and West. He missed his brother so much and he wanted, no he _needed, _to see him. It was tearing him apart, this separation, and he needed to see Ludwig, if only for a while. His determination and need made him far more reckless than he would have usually been. "_Ivan," _he said, trying to put all of his pleading into a single word. He gripped the Russian's desk and leaned over it so he could look him directly in the eyes.

Ivan's frown lifted some and the anger in his eyes was replaced by a cold, calculating gaze. He knew that Gilbert hated to call him by his human name, and any time he did it he had a good reason to.

Gilbert could tell that Ivan was now listening. And right when he was, all of his arguments had failed him. "Please," he said, using all of his willpower to force that word out to the person he hated the most. "I need to go."

The larger man stared at him, those unearthly purple eyes seeming to drill right through his head and twist his thoughts. Ivan was actually quite surprised at what he was hearing. Was Gilbert really begging? The great Kingdom of Prussia, reduced to _this? _A part of him chuckled in delight and another part frowned in disappointment. That was not the Gilbert he knew, and he didn't like it. He tapped his fingers together and stared calmly into the crimson orbs in front of him. Unlike so many others, he was not in the least afraid of those eyes, and after observing them for some time he found that they were quite striking. He could see the desperation in Gilbert's eyes as clearly as if it was written across his forehead. Desperate men would do desperate things, and with a few more clever pushes he could have Gilbert right in the palm of his hand. "And what are you going to do when you see your little match, Gilbert?" he asked lightly. "Are you going to sit in the stands like any other spectator and drink and eat and cheer? Of course not. Don't try to fool me."

Gilbert swallowed thickly and tried to find his voice. "I'm there to see a game, Ivan. Seeing West as well is just a bon—"

Ivan laughed and stopped his sentence short. "A sweet lie, but a lie all the same. I won't have you lying to me to get my permission."

"I don't need your damned permission!" Gilbert finally snapped, his eyes flashing angrily.

Ah, there was the old Gilbert. "To go to West Germany, you do," he reminded the albino kindly.

Gilbert snorted derisively. "I'll climb over that goddamned Wall if I have to, but I'm still going."

"And get shot again, like so many of your botched attempts in the past?"

"Yes, and I'll still get over it."

Ivan tilted his head to one side, observing the sudden strength in the man before him. He had not seen that unshakable, rock-hard determination in a very long time. He supposed Ludwig really did bring out the most admirable traits in his brother, even when he wasn't present. "And what will I get in return?" he asked politely. "Gaining passage into the other half of Germany is tricky business, you know."

Gilbert blinked in surprise. He could not believe his ears. Ivan sounded as if he was actually considering the idea. He thought about what he could possibly trade, but he already knew the answer. "I'll be good," he promised. "For an entire year."

That was certainly tempting. But not good enough. "Just a year, Gilbert? Tsk, that is much too short. How about forever?"

No way in hell. "Ivan, it's a _year. _Three hundred and sixty-five days of no rebelling, no talking back, always getting your sh—vodka."

"It sounds lovely. But it would be wonderful if it would happen all the time."

Gods, he could do that for the rest of his life. Just thinking about it for a year made him want to vomit. He needed something more. "I'll do anything you want," he blurted out, throwing the bait and frantically hoping that Ivan would take it. "Anything."

Ivan paused and mulled the words over. They sounded like a trap. But Gilbert wouldn't try to trap him now, not when the thing he wanted most was about to be snatched away from him. He looked at Gilbert and smiled wider, arching an eyebrow. "Anything?" he repeated, wondering if Gilbert was implying he thought he was implying.

Again, Gilbert swallowed. He knew what Ivan was thinking, with that expression and _that _tone. But he didn't care. He had to see Ludwig. "Anything," he affirmed, feeling his heart race. "For a whole year, anything you want." His palms felt sweaty and he wiped them on his pants.

For a long time Russia stared at him, as if trying to figure out whether he was lying. The clock on the desk ticked the seconds away, marking how long the silence was stretching. Then all at once Ivan moved and opened one of his desk drawers. "Very well, I shall hold you to that." He said, slapping a handful of very official looking documents over his work. "In the meantime you can start your end of the bargain now. Bring me some coffee. You know how I like it."

His stomach was finally starting to lift up from wherever it had fallen during their conversation. "Do you mean it?" he asked, hardly daring to hope that Ivan had actually given in.

Ivan looked up from signing his name onto the documents. "Of course I do, Gilbert. I have never lied to you before. However, it would be cruel to leave my dear sisters and the other states behind; except for poor Yugoslavia, he's not feeling very well. But we can all go on a journey, like a family trip." His eyes grew distant and wistful, and his lips softened. "Like one big family. . ." he murmured to himself, for a moment forgetting that Gilbert was still there. When he remembered he frowned a little. "My coffee, Gilbert," he said warningly.

The albino nodded, then stopped. "Why do I have to start now?" he asked.

Ivan shook his head like a tolerant parents listening to the ramblings of their silly child. "So I can be certain that you will uphold your promise to me. Imagine, us going to Berlin, you seeing that wonderful little brother of yours, and the moment we get back you revert to your old self. I'm being quite merciful here Gilbert, and I need a show of your goodwill." He started writing again.

The threat had not been spoken, but it was as clear as if it had been. _If you don't do this, he won't let you go anywhere, _a voice in his head warned him. He sighed again and nodded. "Alright, I can see that," he said and quietly left to do what Ivan had ordered…

The train jolted again, bringing him out of his daydream. His face felt weird for some odd reason, and he realized that it was because he was smiling. That surprised him more than anything that had happened so far. He couldn't remember the last time he had smiled. He wouldn't have been surprised if he had forgotten how. Raivis was staring at him as if he were crazy and although Toris was not watching he could feel waves of understanding rolling off of him. Gilbert really couldn't care less about all of the staring. He was going to see West! If his injuries hadn't hurt so much then he might have started dancing out of sheer joy, right in the cab.

A feeling of dread pierced right through his euphoria and he turned to see that Ivan was also staring at him. He could feel the Russian's gaze as clearly as if the revolting man had just reached out and touched him. Much to his shock, Ivan was smiling. It looked. . . genuine, nothing like those sadistic smiles or the honey-sweet grins he was used to seeing. Ivan seemed honestly happy for him.

Ivan must have noticed his look, for he simply shook his head and turned back to the window. Gilbert could still see his smile reflected back in the glass. It made him wonder what his captor was so damn happy about.

**Letters**

—_and you should have seen how the army preformed. Steuben and I have only been here for a few months and we've managed to turn this rabble of farmers into soldiers. It was an amazing sight, and after we ambushed the British they took off like sheep being chased by dogs. Of course they tried to fire on us, but they were far too surprised to aim and most of their bullets just passed harmlessly by. However I did find two bullet holes in my hat and a few in my jacket, and I even found a musket ball rolling around in my pocket and now I toss it at Alfred whenever we have lessons on how to dodge gunfire. As of right now he's covered with tiny bruises that are no bigger than the tip of my thumb, and half of the men think he has some sort of plague. It's absolutely hilarious._

_Love, Gilbert_

_Gilbert,_

_I congratulate you on your success. With all of those complaints you were lavishing me with earlier you had me quite convinced that you would never get anything done over there. Perhaps there is something to these Americans after all. Give the Baron my compliments, will you?_

_Despite this, I ask that you please take better care of yourself over there. Knowing that you were almost thrice shot is very disconcerting, and it makes me worry that one day you will not be so lucky._

_And why would you have lessons on how to avoid gunfire? Either you get hit or you don't._

_Love, -_Fritz-___ Frédéric_

_Hey Fritz,_

_Don't worry about it! Worrying needlessly will turn your hair gray, you know. I remind you yet again that I cannot die and therefore is I were shot then I could just get back up later. Hell, for all you know I was shot and killed and I just haven't told you._

…_.That doesn't mean anything by the way. Just me talking random stuff!_

_It is rather flattering to know that you are worried, but you need not to. As for my lessons with Alfred, you yourself know that on occasion we countries can move faster than humans. Of course this doesn't happen all the time, but it's still a useful skill to have in case you need to dodge a bullet._

_Love, Gilbert_

_P.S. Why did you cross your awesome name out?_

_Gilbert,_

_You last letter has not been reassuring in the least, particularly when I find that some areas of it have been stained with what look suspiciously like blood (and I know you tried to hide it from me.) My fears are not as unfounded as you make them seem. Exactly how much have you been keeping from me?_

_I don't understand. If you can dodge bullets they why have I seen you shot so many times?_

_Frédéric_

_P.S. My name is not Fritz. It is Frédéric._

_Fritz,_

_I noticed that your letters are becoming increasingly emotional and frantic. Please, calm down. I was bleeding because a musket ball had clipped me on the cheek and I knew that you would worry if I mentioned it. It seems that either way you find something to fuss over. I don't keep anything from you, I only tell you what I think you need to know because you told me yourself not to bore you with unimportant details. See what I get for doing what you say._

_And to answer your question: because bullets are unawesome._

_Pardon that I cut this letter short, but we are going to march soon. The British are moving, and we might be meeting them in battle soon. I now have every confidence in these soldiers and I'm certain they can win us a victory. If everything goes well then I will write to you soon._

_Love, Gilbert_

_P.S. That's a silly reason._

_Gilbert,_

_I am not becoming frantic. I just want some clear answers, which you seem reluctant to give. And stop throwing my words back at me to gain an advantage, it won't work._

_You were shot on your _cheek? _Only Fortune stopped it from taking off your head! This is why I worry, since every time I let you out of my sight you get into some sort of trouble. And I find you nearly getting shot in the head a very important subject._

_Again I ask that you be careful in your upcoming battle (and you better obey it this time) and write as soon as you are able._

_Love, Frédéric_

_P.S. It does not matter whether my reason is silly. It is still my reason._

…

…

_Gilbert,_

_It has been two weeks since your last letter. I have restrained myself from writing earlier, because I know it takes poor Gilbird a while to cross that great ocean. Now I write because I have been wondering over your prolonged silence. You did not say that you were laying a siege, so I ask for what is happening over there._

_Love, Frédéric_

…

_Gilbert,_

_You are usually not this silent. It is quite disconcerting, and I have heard absolutely no news about the war in quite a while. Are you injured? Please tell me._

_Love, Frédéric_

…

_Gilbert,_

_If you are ignoring me on purpose then I swear you will not like it. Now answer me._

_Fritz_

…

_Gilbert,_

_Honestly, it's becoming quite childish now. It's as silent as a tomb over here and I beg that you reply._

_Fritz_

...

_Gilbert,_

_Please talk to me. I cannot bear this silence anymore._

_Fritz_

…

…

_Alright, fine. You win. What do you want me to do?_

_Fritz_

…

_Gilbert,_

_I miss you. Are you happy now?_

_Fritz_

…

_Mon cheri ami,_

_Why do you keep ignoring your king? Please send him something, he is tiring out all of my Pierres having them fly back and forth between that blasted ocean. And he says that if you keep ignoring him then he will, and I quote: "come to America and drag you back to Prussia by the ear and the war be damned."_

_All my love, Francis_

_F—_

_Traitor._

—_G_

_P.S. Why do you keep kissing your letters?_

_Mon ami,_

_Why do you ignore him so? He has been pestering me about your health._

_All my love, Francis_

_P.S. It shows mon amor of my love for him! _

_Francis,_

_Actually I have just received his latest letter now. All he had to say was one little "I miss you" and things would have been fine. A lot better than him constantly nagging me, I'll tell you._

_Gilbert_

_P.S. Hmm, coming to America? That actually sounds pretty awesome._

_P.S.S I'm going to ignore that heart you drew on your letter._

_Mon cher Prusse, _

_Why can't you just be normal and _ask _him if he misses you? No need to be dramatic about it._

_All my love, Francis~_

_P.S. By the way, your king says that you're a fucking bastard._

_F—_

_Pffft. Boring._

—_G_

_P.S. He wants me._

**Vacuum**

Cleaning day.

The most dreaded time in the house of Germany. The time when West's domestic instincts went nuts and the floors were mopped, the furniture dusted, rooms cleaned, and everything scrubbed until the entire house was as spotless as if it had been just built. The dogs knew by now to hide under Gilbert's bed whenever Ludwig started to get the cleaning supplies out because the only safe haven in the entire house would soon be the albino's room. The ex-nation would lounge on his bed, idly flipping through the channels on the TV, cursing his brother and his OCD-ness.

Downstairs he could hear thumping and clattering, the usual sounds of West waging war on stains and dust bunnies. He knew that Ludwig wouldn't appreciate him coming downstairs because whenever he did he somehow managed to track dirt everywhere or make streaks on freshly mopped floors or smear marks on whatever he had just polished or one of the other dozens of things that West managed to flip out over. He could be such a _woman _sometimes. It kinda sucked actually. He was getting hungry. He heard a whine and looked down to see Berlitz cautiously poking his nose out from under the bed, cautiously sniffing the air. "It's alright," he cooed to the dog, reaching down to pat his head. He thought that it was rather funny how the fierce German Shepard had been reduced to _this _just by looking at a broom.

Gilbird started to cheep and fly in circles around his head. "Oi, shutup," Prussia said, holding out his finger, which the chick obediently perched upon. "I'll get food in a little while, when West stops going crazy." He grinned wisely, suddenly wondering if his brother was wearing that frilly pink apron that he had bought him for Christmas. One time he had managed to convince his brother to wear nothing _but _that apron as he cleaned the house.

That had been a good day.

Gilbird chirped again, bringing him back from the wonderful fantasy that his mind had been about to create. "Look, I'm sorry I forgot to buy food. I'll get some later." Another cheep. Gilbert sighed explosively and crossed his arms, forcing the bird to fly onto his shoulder. "No, not while West is cleaning." As if on cue, the scream of a vacuum started downstairs. The dogs started to shake. Gilbird cheeped again and dug his tiny claws into his owner's shoulder. "Alright!" Gilbert finally said. "But you owe me."

If it was possible for a bird to look triumphant, then Gilbird managed it.

Prussia poked his head out of the door and was greeted by the roar of the vacuum increasing tenfold. Gilbird ruffled his feathers but did not move. The pale man quickly crept out and ran to the end of the hall and peered down the stairs. They led straight into the living room and thankfully he did not see West anywhere. He quickly bounded down the stairs, hoping the vacuum drowned out his steps, and ducked into the kitchen.

And immediately slipped and fell. "Dammit Lutz," he growled against the tiled floor, staring at the unnaturally bright reflections next to his face. The floor had been waxed. He mentally hit himself for not thinking about that sooner. He thanked whatever gods existed that it had already dried, or else West just might have exploded. He tried to get up and slid again, almost smashing his face in. He swore and went to take his socks off, then froze. If he put his bare feet on the floor then that would leave marks, and if Ludwig saw that after he had _just _waxed. . . he shuddered and opted to scoot across the floor instead.

He yanked open the door and grabbed a beer. As he was closing the door he heard the vacuum click off. _Shit, _he thought, using the counter to pull himself to his feet. He quickly grabbed an apple and stuffed it in his pocket and then tried to shuffle across the floor without falling again. Once out of the kitchen he saw Ludwig, or rather, Ludwig's ass as he bent over to plug in the vacuum.

Gilbert paused as if he had just been slapped in the face, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight. Then he noticed that Ludwig was indeed wearing his pink apron. In an instant his plans changed and he figured that the dogs wouldn't mind too much if he didn't come back upstairs for a while.

"Gilbert, what are you doing?" Germany asked, not even turning around.

He almost swore again. "Getting food," he said nonchalantly.

"You better not have put marks on the floor."

He rolled his eyes even though Ludwig's back was still facing him and therefore he couldn't see. "I didn't, chill out," he muttered, heading over to the couch. His eyes roamed over the rest of the clothes his brother was wearing, scowling at them since as if their very existence vexed him. He'd have to get rid of them later. He threw himself onto the couch and popped the cap off of his beer using his teeth.

Ludwig whirled as if he had heard a gunshot and glared at him. "Don't drink that over the couch!" he yelled in exasperation.

"Chill the hell out West, I'm not gonna spill it. Spilling beer is a sin." He said right before he threw his head back and started drinking. Gilbird landed on his chest and looked at him mournfully. "Oh yeah," he said and reached into his pocket for his apple and knife. He quickly sliced the fruit into thin pieces.

"Are you seriously about to start eating in here?" Ludwig demanded.

"No, he is," Prussia said, pointing to Gilbird. Ludwig didn't look amused. "It's an _apple _West, it's not gonna stain anything." The taller nation just huffed and started vacuuming, leaving Gilbert to grin at his victory. He sipped his beer and watched his brother clean. He was quite thorough, vacuuming under and behind the furniture and even under the cushions of the chairs. Not that Gilbert minded, since it forced Ludwig to bend over, crawl on his knees, stretch out, and put himself into all sorts of various positions in order to accomplish his tasks. It was like being given a free show.

The albino toyed with the hem of his shirt, berating himself for not wearing a button up because that was so much easier to tease people with. But then again being blatant sometimes worked. A few moments later he decided that it really didn't matter; it was actually quite warm in the house and Ludwig no doubt had a lot of energy to work off. He quickly peeled off his shirt and stuffed it between the couch cushions and went back to his beer. If Ludwig noticed his brother's new state of dress then he didn't acknowledge it. He simply went on with his cleaning until he reached the couch. "Get up," he said, making a shooing motion with his hand.

Prussia grinned and leaned back. "No," he replied.

Germany tried not to roll his eyes. "_Please _get up," he tried.

"No," Prussia said again. "The couch isn't even that dirty."

"It's not as clean as everything else," Germany retorted.

Gilbert snorted with laughter. "Oh come on West, it's fine. You can even sit on it if you want." He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

This time Ludwig really did roll his eyes. He knew exactly what his brother was trying to do and he really didn't want to put up with it. In a second he had slipped his hands under Gilbert's body and was about to lift him up when Gilbert purred and arched into the touch. The blond literally froze for a half-second before he jerked away as if his sibling's half-naked body had just burned him. "Just get up," he said, his cheeks noticeably pinker.

Gilbert smiled. "Ludwig," he murmured in that low tone that would always catch Ludwig's attention, no matter what he was doing. "It would be entirely pointless to clean the couch, then have to clean it again when we're done using it. I'm only asking for a few minutes of your time." He stretched himself fully across the couch, openly displaying himself as if he were on a silver platter.

Ludwig's cheeks turned even redder at the implications. "I didn't say that I would do anything," he said sternly, although that certainly wasn't stopping him from thinking things.

And it showed. "If you don't want to do anything then why are you getting hard?"

The younger country felt his face heating up and Gilbert laughed loudly. He cleared his throat and tried to ignore the laughter and the growing tightness in his pants that said laughter caused. He brandished the hose of the vacuum as if it were a gun and turned it on. "I'm not asking you again, get up," he said.

Prussia looked up and grinned. "You know West," he said over the noise, letting one of his legs slide off the couch. "You can always use that to suck on someone. Really frees your mouth."

If it at all possible, Ludwig's face turned an even deeper shade of red and he felt dizzy from all of the blood going to his head—both of them. Without really thinking he swung the hose at Gilbert, hoping to knock him on the head and get him to finally shut up. Gilbert yelled and hit his hand and instead of crashing into his skull the hose somehow managed to latch onto the albino's neck.

The reaction was not what he suspected.

Gilbert's eye grew huge and his jaw fell open, then he grabbed the hose and pushed it deeper into his skin, wriggling and bucking. "Oh fuck West, _yeessss—" _he hissed, entirely unaware that he was doing so. He laughed again, breathless and delighted from the assault of pleasure on his nerves.

That was more than enough for Ludwig. He all but pounced on the albino and ripped the hose off of his neck, replacing it with his teeth as he bit down on skin. Gilbert's hands immediately grabbed his hair and yanked it, freeing from its usual slicked-back prison. He responded by grabbing Gilbert's wrists and pinning them above his head before sliding up and kissing him on the mouth. He bit down on Gilbert's lower lip, hard enough to bleed, but Gilbert always liked it rough. He heard a light growl and then Gilbert was biting him back. For a second it was all a dominance battle when Gilbert suddenly hooked a leg around Ludwig's hip and dragged him closer, grinding their arousals together harshly. Ludwig broke off the kiss, gasping, but immediately went back to attacking the albino's neck, sucking and biting.

A cheep interrupted them.

They both paused, flushed and panting, Ludwig's teeth still brushing Gilbert's neck and Gilbert's legs still hooked around his brother's waist. The chirping came again, louder and more frantic. In unison, they both looked to the source of the noise in just enough time to see a yellow ball of fluff disappear down the hose of the vacuum—which had fallen to the floor—with a frightening sucking noise.

"Gilbird!" Prussia screamed and threw Ludwig off of him with a strength that Ludwig didn't know he still had. Gilbert lunged for the vacuum while Ludwig crashed unceremoniously into the table and he nearly ripped the vacuum apart as he tried to open it and turn it off at the same time.

"Don't open it!" Ludwig yelled, but it was too late. A great cloud of dust billowed out and a flying black ball shot into the room, cheeping angrily and trailing feather and dust wherever it went.

"No Gilbird, come back!" Gilbert cried, leaping over the couch in one bound in an attempt to catch his bird. The vacuum clattered to the ground and spilled the rest of its contents all over the pristine carpet. The two of them ran around the room for a minute before the chick flew out of the open window. "No!" Gilbert yelled again, leaping out of the window and chasing him down the street, still shirtless.

Ludwig swore heatedly and pushed himself to his feet, glaring at the mess that had just been made. Dust was everywhere and some of the furniture had been knocked down. He would have to put everything back in order and vacuum _again. _He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. At least it was just dust. At least it was easy to clean up. However, he heard a steady dripping noise coming from behind him and turned to see that Gilbert's beer had been knocked over and was now spilling all over the carpet.

Even though he was nearly half a block away, Gilbert still heard Ludwig's scream. He cringed and figured that it would probably be better for his health if he hung out at Toni's place for the rest of the week.

**Zoo**

"Animal cruelty! That's what this entire thing is! How would you like it if someone shoved you into a cage and—"

"Would you shut _up?" _Ludwig hissed, about to die from embarrassment as everyone within hearing distance stopped and stared at them. He grabbed his brother's arm and quickly dragged him away, past the tigers pacing in their cages and past any people until they were out of sight.

"What, West? This isn't awesome. Captivity is not awesome, and neither is dragging me so can your unawesome self unhand the Awesome Me?" Gilbert jerked out of his grip and stomped over to bench, crossing his arms and pouting. God he looked like a five-year old.

Germany smacked a hand to his forehead and rubbed it. Why in the world he thought this was a good idea evaded him. He didn't like zoos overly much, but his Boss had insisted that he take a break and gave him free tickets, so it had been rather hard to refuse. Now he really wished he had turned down the offer since Gilbert insisted on making this trip a disaster. "Will you please stop making a scene?" he asked, uncovering his face so he could look at his brother.

Gilbert still didn't look very happy. "Why? No one else is doing anything about how these animals are treated. Just look at those cages they were in! And then the whipping and beating them with a chair, that's just messed up Ludwig." He drew his legs up on the bench and plopped his chin on his knees, sulking.

Ludwig sighed and sat next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Yes, the animals could be treated better, but yelling at innocent spectators isn't going to change anything. If you really want to do something then talk to the ringmaster or something." He could tell that his words weren't having too good of an effect, but Gilbert was certainly appreciating the shoulder rub.

The older nation gnawed on his lip with his teeth. "Yeah I know, but sometimes it's so frustrating." He looked as if he wanted to say more, but right then one of the animal handlers came up.

"Excuse me sir," he said, sounding very aloof and professional. "Do you know that you have a bird on your head?"

Prussia turned and gave the man one of those "you-are-so-stupid-that-I'm-surprised-you-even-know-how-to-breathe" glares that often had his soldiers shrinking in fear. "Yeah, so?" he replied tersely.

His manners obviously shocked the handler, who thought that he had simply asked a polite question and he could not see why the man was being so rude. He cleared his throat, more than a little uncomfortable with those red eyes that stared at him as if daring him to say something idiotic. "Well, I noticed that it seems very tame and isn't flying off. I think it could be one of our animals, and it might have slipped out of its cage. May I ask where you fond the bird, and if—" He stopped abruptly when he saw the fury in Prussia's eyes.

Only Ludwig's nearly bone-crushing grip on his arm stopped him from leaping at the man. He did jump to his feet though. "He is not your goddamned bird and even if he was then he would not be going with you!" he yelled, once again causing people to stop and stare. On top of his head, Gilbird chirped, puzzled by all of the yelling. "Now out!"

"Out" probably wasn't the right word because they were already outside, but nonetheless the man turned and fled. An Italian would have been proud. Prussia's eyes followed him even after he had disappeared, as if contemplating whether or not to run after him. Ludwig squeezed his arm lightly and once more started to lead him away. "Now that you've managed to make another scene," the blond said, trying to seem as calm as possible, "what do you want to do?"

Gilbert pursed his lips and gently petted Gilbird, stroking the chick on the head with one of his fingers. His eyes roamed around, watching the animals stuck in their cages with the people ogling them. He felt sick. "Let's get some food," he said, suddenly taking the lead and dragging Ludwig behind him. They pushed through the crowd, looking for a food stand. Gilbert simply followed his nose until they came to a stand where a man was selling roasted nuts. "Hey Lutz, let's get some nuts. Geddit, nuts?" Gilbert laughed to himself, probably thinking that he was very clever.

"Whatever," Ludwig said, rolling his eyes and letting go of his brother. He knew that Gilbert wouldn't buy any food, so that left him to do it. He wasn't very hungry, so he bought only one, and when he turned around with the packet in his hand he saw that Gilbert had completely disappeared. "_Bruder?" _He asked, scanning the immediate area. He saw neither a mop of white hair nor a fluffy yellow chick and he felt his heart quicken. He quickly shoved his ridiculous fear aside. Prussia could easily take care of himself, and had probably seen something shiny and had wandered off to see what it was. What puzzled him most was how a man with red eyes, white hair, and a bird riding on top of his head managed to utterly disappear in a crowd. Then again Gilbert often did things that defied all logic so he didn't think too hard on it.

He sat down on an empty bench and watched the people going by, waiting for his brother to come back. He absently munched on a peanut, savoring the sweet taste. They were honey roasted, which he actually bought just for Gilbert because he knew his older brother had a fondness for sweet things. The minutes passed and as they dragged on Ludwig started to worry again. If Gilbert had just gone off to look at something then he would have definitely been back by now. Did he go somewhere else? If he did then why did he do it the moment he had his back turned? He pondered that, then he realized that Gilbert was up to no good. There was no other explanation.

Again he felt a wave of fear, but much to his surprise it was not his own.

Someone screamed and he noticed that there were people running. "Help!" he heard someone yell. "The animals are loose!" As if to approve of the statement he heard a roar.

Oh _no._

"Are those honey roasted?" Gilbert's voice just _appeared _behind him and a pale hand quickly snaked into the bag he was holding in his hand. "Awww, they are! That was so sweet of you Lutz."

Germany leaped to his feet in alarm and turned to Gilbert, who was smiling. Not good. "What did you _do?" _Ludwig yelled, putting as much force into his words as he could.

"Something awesome," Gilbert replied. There was another roar and something streaked by them. "Go, be free!" He yelled and Gilbird twittered in excitement. Two seconds later the expression was wiped clean off of his face. "Oh shit," he muttered before turning and running, something very un-Prussian of him to do.

Ludwig glanced over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of something orange and black running towards them and moments later and he was running after his brother. "Gilbert I swear to Gott if these animals don't kill you then I will!" he screamed at him.

**Attraction**

_Take special note of one of your students, Gilbert Beilschmidt. He has a condition which makes him sensitive to sunlight, and he is allowed to have sunglasses in his possession._

Condition? Well don't be too specific, will you? Frederick shook his head and slipped the note into his pocket, wondering what sort of "condition" this Gilbert had. Not that he was going to pester the boy or anything, he just wanted to know. It had been a common failing of his, constantly seeking out new information, whether good or bad. He swept the papers on his desk into a neat pile and after a moment of deliberation went over to the windows. They were very large and sunlight poured through them, turning the room a warm honey color. It was beautiful, but he grabbed the drawstring to the blinds and pulled them down. The things he had to sacrifice.

The room looked a bit more artificial with the light gone, but he was going to put up with it if it made a student more comfortable. He drifted around the room, waiting for his second class to arrive. The bell had rung almost a minute ago and they still had yet to show up. The campus of Hetalia Academy may have been large, but it wasn't enormous. Perhaps they were taking their time because they knew that they had a new teacher. He thought that his first class had liked him well enough. He was certainly not the stuffy old teacher that he knew that they had stereotyped him to be. It could have gone much worse, that much was for certain.

To busy himself, he started to clean his flute. He was just putting it back in its case when he heard the door open and close. He looked up to see a lone student carefully making his way towards him. The first thing he noticed was that the student had white hair. Not a really pale blond, but literal silvery-white. The second thing he noticed were the sunglasses covering the student's eyes, and he immediately knew that this was the mysterious Gilbert Beilschmidt. He was wearing the Hetalia Academy uniform, albeit a little sloppily, and a black and white bag was slung over his shoulder. Then the student took off his glasses and Frederick wasn't sure which of them looked more surprised.

Now that the glasses were off he could see Gilbert's face clearly, and he was shocked to see how pale he was. There was such an utter lack of color to him, except for the slightest pink undertone from the blood underneath his skin. _Albinism, _he thought to himself. _That's his "condition." _But the most shocking were his eyes. Most albinos had pink eyes, but this person had true, deep red eyes that stared at him in the most unnerving way. At least those eyes were widened in innocent surprise, which diminished their effect somewhat.

Innocent surprise was a good phrase. _This is our new teacher? _Gilbert thought, more shocked than had been all year. He didn't know what he had expected, but it had not been this young man who could not have possibly been older than his mid-twenties. Yet he was surprisingly short, Gilbert would have bet money that he wasn't taller than Feli. He had long reddish-brown hair that was tied back into a ponytail and the most drop dead gorgeous blue eyes he had ever seen in his life. He could immediately name over ten girls who would commit murder to have their eyes that color.

Only a few seconds had passed while they each made their observations about each other. Not long enough for the silence to become awkward. Frederick smiled, trying to look as amiable as possible. "Ah, so you're the student whom I had to shut the blinds for!" he said, waving towards the windows.

For a moment Gilbert wondered if the teacher was accusing him of something, but he didn't sound very accusatory. More teasing actually. He tilted his head and smiled. It was a wide, sharp smile that was full of wit. "Yep, that's me. Gilbert Beilschmidt." He said the words as if he were announcing some sort of lordship or title. As if simply _being _him was a privilege. "And you're. . ." his eyes darted to the board and he raised his eyebrows. "Mister Frederick?" He looked at his new teacher as if he were playing a joke.

"Yes, that is what I would like for you to call me." Frederick tried not to laugh at Gilbert's expression, but it tickled him for some reason.

"What's your last name?"

"Hohenzollern."

"What."

Frederick really did laugh this lime, because Gilbert's deadpanned tone didn't even make the word into a question. "Exactly. Frederick is so much easier for people to remember."

The beginnings of a grin twitched on Gilbert's pale lips and he threw his bag into a chair. "So, I take it you're German then?" he asked in a voice tinged with excitement. No wonder, since he was meeting one of his fellow countrymen.

"Yes, but some find that hard to believe." At Gilbert's look he went on. "I lived in France for a few years when I was a child, and I fell quite in love with the country. I almost ashamed to admit that I can speak French just as fluently—if not even better—than my mother tongue."

Gilbert jus scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Oh boy, Francis'll love you." The way he said it made it sound like an undesirable thing.

Frederick decided not to ask. "Are you the only one in this class?" he asked, seating himself beside Gilbert so he could talk to him easier. "Where is everybody?"

"Well, my class is close to this one so I'm usually one of the first people here. Although Alfred wanted to show us all something on his phone so the others are probably being held up."

Frederick sighed and in an instant he pulled a phone out of his pocket. Gilbert's eyes grew huge when he saw it. "What is Alfred's number?" Frederick asked briskly, sliding out a keyboard.

Startled, Gilbert gave it to him. "Why?"

"I wouldn't want most of my class getting in to trouble for being late," Frederick replied. He typed out a quick message, fast as Gilbert had ever seen anyone type, and slid the keyboard back into place. He noticed Gilbert's incredulous look and smiled. "What?" he asked with a fake innocence.

Gilbert shook his head and said nothing. This teacher was so. . ._different _from any teacher he ever had before. He was charming and polite and didn't lord over you like some of the more strict teachers. Then again considering his height Frederick probably couldn't lord over much of anyone. Either way, he found himself talking to this man as if he were a friend, which had never happened with a teacher before. "What instrument can you play?" he asked, suddenly wanting to know more about him.

Frederick pocketed his phone. "Flute mostly. I also know how to play the piano and little bit of the violin, although I never really practiced my violin as much as I should have. And you?"

"My friend Feliciano taught me how to play the violin," Gilbert said. He grinned, knowing that Feli shared this class with him. He would love their teacher. "But I was wondering if there were any other good instruments to play."

"Well I can certainly teach you the flute," Frederick replied. "That would be the easiest for the both of us."

"Alright then, flute it is," Gilbert said with the same sharp smile. Frederick found himself intrigued by that smile. It was the knowing smile of an intellect, and Frederick loved nothing more than to carry on an intelligent conversation with someone. Paired with Gilbert's sharp features it made him look quite handsome.

He was about to ask another question when the door was flung open and a small whirlwind of energy bounded into the room. "Gil, you won't believe what happened!" Feliciano crowed, skipping over to them. "Alfred was showing us all these cool pictures on his phone and suddenly a teacher texted him and told him to stop distracting his students!"

Gilbert looked immediately to Frederick, who had the smallest of smiles on his face. Feli followed his gaze. "Ve~ are you our new teacher?"

"Yes, my name is Mister Frederick," was Frederick's reply. He stood up and Gilbert noticed with no small amount of amusement that he and Feli were practically the same height. Feli was probably a hair or two taller.

"Is that so? What's your first name?" Leave it to Feli to ask all of the personal questions.

"Frederick," the teacher replied, even more amused.

"Ve~?" Feliciano asked, looking even more confused. Then he smiled brightly. "You have very pretty eyes," he said, neither flattering nor mockingly, but stating a simple fact.

And wasn't that the truth. After some intense staring Gilbert had noticed that those blue eyes almost seemed to have some gray in them. Frederick raised his eyebrows as if asking him if he was being serious, and then he smiled as well. It lit up his face and all at once his eyes seemed very warm and inviting. "Thank you," he said with a nod. "_Grazie." _

_He can speak Italian? _Gilbert wanted to yell and in an instant Feli's whole demeanor managed to become even more hyper, which was an accomplishment. He opened his mouth and was about to subject them to a whole round of his incoherent Italian babbling when the doors opened yet again and the rest of the class streamed in. Gilbert saw Feli's older brother detach himself from the crowd and run over.

"Feli! Did you run off _again? _I swear to god I will fucking tie you to me if this keeps happening!" Lovino yelled, grabbing his brother's arm. Despite his words he actually looked a little worried. His gaze landed on Frederick. "Are you new?" he asked curiously.

"Yes, I am," Frederick replied, unperturbed.

"_Fratello, _you won't believe it, he's—"

"Later, Feli. Where the hell's our teacher?" The older Italian scanned the room.

"Right here," Frederick piped up again. Lovino's eye landed on him, shocked and wide. "I'm your _new _teacher," Frederick elaborated, flashing an amused glance at Gilbert. The teen snorted with laughter, trying not to howl like he wanted to. Lovi flushed a deep red and before he could attempt to explain himself the bell rang. Frederick winked at them and stepped up to the front of the room. "Alright, settle down!" He yelled, his voice startlingly loud for someone so small.

Gilbert lounged back into his chair, again observing their new teacher. He seemed very funny and laidback, and yet demanded them of work when the time came. Gilbert was certain that he would like him, even though he had only know him for about five minutes.

**Feather**

Prussia is a wreck.

Schwerin sighed to himself as he slipped into the room and saw Prussia's stiff back as he stared out the window. It had been an entire day since the king had been kidnapped, and all of their most vigorous searching had not even turned up a hair of him. The general could not believe that such an atrocity had been committed in their own territory, right under their noses. It was unforgiveable. How could they have messed up this badly?

He made his way over to the silent figure, his footsteps soft and careful. Gilbert did not even move or acknowledge his presence. He simply stood and stared out that window and let one of his hands rest on Frederick's hat, which was on the desk beside him. Schwerin could still clearly recall the exact moment when Gilbert had stormed into their headquarters, pale as a corpse and gripping the black feather-trimmed tricorn hat as if it were the only thing keeping him alive. In a way, it was. He remembered listening to Prussia as he stammered out an explanation, how their king had been captured by the enemy and that almost his entire guard had been slaughtered.

Prussia blamed himself. He could tell from his obsessive scouring and searching of the countryside. He never even part from Frederick's hat, always keeping it within arm's reach.

He stopped right behind him, for a moment unsure of what to say. "You found nothing, didn't you?" Prussia asked, saving him the trouble.

Of course they didn't. And Schwerin absolutely hated himself for it. "No," he replied, sounding more dejected than he ever had in his life. "Not a trace."

Prussia sighed and thumped his forehead against the glass. Schwerin noticed how his hand tightened around the hat like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline. "I don't know why I'm so surprised," he whispered, his breath fogging against the window. "It's been the same answer every other time I've asked, I don't know why I expected this to be an different." He paused for a moment as he realized what he just said. "But I still thank you for your effort. It means a lot to me."

The general swallowed and did not reply. He was just doing what any soldier, what any good man, would do. Why their own nation was personally thanking him was beyond him, especially when he was failing so horribly. The kidnappers could not have gotten very far, since it would have been far more prudent to hide their prisoner in the nearby countryside instead of running off somewhere. So why couldn't they find them? That many hussars did not simply vanish off of the face of the earth! He gripped his hands around his walking stick tightly, frustrated beyond belief. The king had been one of his closest friends for many years now, and he had been certain that he could serve and protect him.

And yet, a small, emphatic part of him pitied the poor nation standing in front of him, because he knew that Prussia's grief had to be so much worse. Schwerin had known the king for years, but Gilbert had known him since the day he had been born. Schwerin had not actually been with the king on his journey, but Prussia had. It was Prussia's job to serve and protect Frederick with his life, and when Frederick had needed him the most he had not been there. He knew that Prussia was letting his guilt eat away at him, because Schwerin was doing the same.

"We won't give up," Schwerin found himself saying. He might as well have been talking to a piece of wood. He saw Gilbert's gaze darting to and fro, but what he was looking at was anyone's guess.

At that moment Schwerin wanted to do nothing but crawl into a bed and sleep. He was constantly working, taking only a few hours' worth of naps before throwing himself back into his labors again. Prussia did not sleep at all. He had heard from the aides that Prussia did nothing but pace all night and pour over every scrap of information they had. Whatever food was brought up to him would remain untouched. Even though it had only been a day and a half, Prussia's eyes had become bloodshot, his cheeks hollowed, and his clothes seem to somehow hang from his body. They all felt terrible, but Prussia actually looked like it. For the oddest reason that made him feel guiltier.

He realized for the first time how important their dear king was to Gilbert. He had never seen him look so utterly _lost _before. He opened his mouth to say something—_anything—_to reassure the nation, but again Prussia beat him to it.

"I will find him."

Prussia turned his head to him, and he was shocked to see that his eyes were still alive. They _burned _in a bold defiance to. . .the Hungarians? The Austrians? The world? Fate itself? Those eyes seemed to reach into him and hold him, as if something had physically restrained him. His heart raced as if it had been shocked and his felt the nation's gaze right down to his very bones. It was instances like these that made it easy to believe that Gilbert was not human. A blink later and the unnatural feeling was gone. Prussia's eyes slowly drifted down to the hat as if something had drawn them there. "I swear it," he promised, his hand starting to shake. "If I never do anything else in my life I _will _find him."

Schwerin nodded and stared at the hat with him. It was the only remnant left of the king they both loved. It was a poor, pathetic substitute. He didn't care if they had to murder every single Hungarian hussar in the country, he just wanted his friend back. "_We _will find him," he said, looking up into those chilling eyes. "We all will, General." It was hard for him to say Prussia; it felt unnatural on his tongue.

Prussia stared at him for a long moment, and then he smiled. It was tired and worn, but it was completely genuine. "It's just Gilbert, Schwerin," he said gently. He looked amused, but it was such a welcome sight that Schwerin found himself smiling back. "I know you feel obligated to call be by some sort of title due to my position, but I insist that you call me Gilbert." He straightened up and took the hat in his arms, holding it as if it were a child. "Yes, we will all find him. And then we'll show the Austrians that you don't mess with our king." Now his smile was forced, but there was a definite spring in his step as he headed for the door.

**Noise**

Something had been following Frederick around all day. He could tell.

The worst part was that he couldn't see it. He could hear it, but every time he tried to get a look he would see nothing behind him. He half-feared that he was going mad and was hearing things, but usually people who went insane tended to hear voices and not an odd thumping noise. So he concluded that something small was following him.

He didn't hear it all the time. Usually it showed up whenever he went into another room or walked a long distance, coming in sporadic bursts. The oddest thing that no one else seemed to notice a thing either. Whenever he held an audience he waited for someone to hopefully point out something, but it never happened. He wanted to ask Gilbert, but the nation had gone to the city earlier that day and had yet to come back. So with a little bit of difficulty Frederick put it into the back of his mind ignored it to the best of his ability.

The gardens seemed to offer a bit if a reprieve. Whatever was stalking his shadow vanished in them, giving him a measure of peace. The king strolled for some time, enjoying the peace that he rarely got these days. Even when they were not in a war odd, disturbing things still happened to him. Such was his life, he supposed. It was nearly an hour before he had to venture back inside; being a king meant that he always had a schedule, even in his most private of retreats. As he headed for the door he heard the noise start up again, coming closer to him. He broke out into a run, regardless of whatever eyes may be watching, and slammed the doors behind him. He listened for a second, but he could hear nothing. He laughed, satisfied that he had gotten rid of his bothersome noise, and made his way to his rooms, feeling much more at ease.

His rooms were always his sanctuary. No one was allowed inside of them unless he allowed it, and it was always here where his deepest thoughts were allowed to see the light of day. He wished for a moment that Gilbert were with him, because only his lover could listen to whatever he said and not immediately judge him for it, but he brushed it away. Gilbert had his duties in the city, whatever they were, just like he did. He made his way over to his flute case and opened it, gently skimming his fingers over the ebony frame before methodically piecing it together. Just as he was finished he heard a slight tapping coming from the window, startling him out of his thoughts. The monarch frowned and walked to the window, at first seeing nothing. He paused and opened the window, more out of curiosity's sake than anything. At once he heard a loud fluttering, the exact same noise he had been hearing all day, but this time he saw it as a small yellow bundle flew right into his room and landed on his music stand. He relaxed when he saw what it was.

"Piyo!" Gilbird chirped at him, almost the same way a person would say "Hello!" It was a little unnerving.

"So you're the one that's been following me around all day," Frederick murmured, laughing at himself. God, what a fool he was! He should have known that sound well enough by now.

"Piyo~!" Gilbird chirped again, hopping along his stand and tilting his head to one side. Then abruptly he flew off again, landing on his desk. Frederick watched him hop around before flying to his bed.

Frederick frowned a little. "What? If you're going to come in then at least stay still. You're making me nervous with all of that flapping." Then he paused as he analyzed what he had just said. What was he _doing, _talking to a bird? It couldn't understand him, it was a bird! But Gilbert did it all the time and. . . he ground his teeth together. Gilbert and his ridiculous habits were starting to rub off on him, and that wasn't a good thing.

He watched Gilbird flit about his room, landing on the chandelier, his study, his bookshelf, and even under his bed, peeping all the while. No matter where the chick landed he starting peering about as if looking for something. Or someone. "He's not here," Frederick said, mentally kicking himself for talking again.

And, amazingly, the bird paused and looked at him. He felt his breath catch. No, there was no possible way the bird could understand him. It was impossible. And yet those two black eyes stared at him in the oddest, most concentrated way, which a normal bird with its tiny attention span could not do. "Gilbert's not here," he elaborated, feeling slightly foolish and very disconcerted.

Gilbird flew over to him, landing on the nearby desk. "Piyooo," the chick sang, staring at him mournfully. Despite everything that was scientifically possible, the animal sounded sad. Hell he even _looked _sad, as if it somehow knew that his master was not around.

Frederick plucked at his cravat and stepped up to the music stand, suddenly wanting to avoid Gilbird and his not-bird-but-very-human acting. "I'm sorry," he said, flipping through his music. "He will be back later. I'm sure he's missing you too." He lifted is flute and drew in a breath to play when he heard another fluttering and a weight was suddenly on top of his head. He was frozen in place for a good handful of seconds, then he nearly threw his flute onto his stand and ran for the mirror on his nightstand. "_Oh _no," he said the moment he looked into the mirror and saw a yellow ball sitting on top of his head. "I am not Gilbert, off!" He flicked his hand at Gilbird and watched him take flight, but a moment later he landed on his shoulder. "Stop that!" he said, shooing the bird away. It landed on his wrist. "Gilbert might tolerate you riding on his head all the time, but I will not. Shoo." He tried to wave Gilbird away but the persistent thing just fluttered to his head again and stubbornly avoided his hand.

He hoped a servant wouldn't suddenly take it in their head to enter his rooms. That was the absolute last thing he needed.

Finally he gave up and simply stared at Gilbird in the mirror. Gilbird stared back. "This is so stupid," he murmured. Gilbird didn't answer. He just stared at him with that same, begging puppy look that Gilbert had pulled on him many times in the past, and for a moment the parallel between the albino and his bird were uncanny. Frederick felt his defenses crumbling. "I can't go walking around with a bird on my head," he protested, but even to his own ears his voice lacked any conviction. Apparently the chick could tell, and it settled itself further into his head with a happy peep. It was a little fluffy bump that stuck out from his perfectly combed hair, and it most definitely did not belong. Yet he could not bring himself to bat it away. "Fine," he growled at last, stomping back over to the music stand. "But if you shit on my head then I'm throwing you into the fireplace. While it's lit." He got another peep as an answer. Mentally swearing, he grabbed his flute and launched into the first song that he saw on his stand, trying to forget about the bird.

For a while he succeeded. Despite his recent irritations, his dear _principessa _always managed to take them away. The music became him and he was so caught up with it that he barely remembered where he was or what time it was. He let the notes take him someplace else, a safe place that he had greedily sought out as a child and made him sneak his flute past his father, for it had been one of the only times in his life where he had been truly happy. He had forgotten about Gilbird completely, so when the bird suddenly burst out into song he nearly leaped out of his skin in fright. The flute squeaked into silence and left him panting in shock. "What?" he asked resentfully, wanting to smack his little companion for interrupting his music. The reply he got was a little warbling that he would have bet money sounded a little puzzled. "It's music," he explained, "now don't interrupt." He lifted the instrument again and had only blown two notes before the singing started up again. "Will you stop that?" he snapped.

No response. Frederick prayed that Gilbert would come back soon. He didn't think he could stand his pet for much longer. He started his music again, wincing as Gilbird once more started to sing. As much as he tried he couldn't block the noise out completely, and as a consequence he listened to it, and when he realized just what it was he nearly dropped his flute out of shock. It was a harmony. It was not a harsh intrusion upon his music, a competitor vying to make himself heard. It was a harmony to his melody, an accompaniment, a duet. He had to stop again. "How the _deuce _did you do that?" he asked, holding his hand out for the bird. It immediately hopped onto his palm. He placed it on top of the music stand. "Did Gilbert teach you how to do that?" he asked in a barely restrained excitement. Gilbird blinked and stared at him cluelessly.

He thought that birds only knew one song, but this bird seemed to be able to make any note he pleased without having to follow it up by the same tone embedded into his instincts like every other bird did. Fascinating. He would have to ask Gilbert about it later. As he raised his flute to his lips the less rational part of his mind would have sworn that the bird looked _excited. _This time Gilbird shifted seamlessly into his song and his listened in an enraptured amazement as they created an entirely different sort of music together. Somehow, Gilbird seemed to have an instinct for what sounded right. He drew out long notes when Frederick launched into a solo and whenever the flute rose in volume he backed off in return. When Frederick sounded weak Gilbird proudly warbled a tune of his own, adding a sweet counterpoint to the sonata that was even complete with trills. Frederick found himself shifting his music slightly, coming from instinct and long habits of finding just the right sound, to create a new and unique melody that was gently pulled back and forth between them, like two children playing catch with a ball.

When it finally ended he could do nothing but stare for a long minute. Gilbird peeped happily and seemed quite pleased with himself. He knew that he was giving the bird emotions yet _again_ but it had just created music with him, and that required a significantly deep thought process. "I used to think that Gilbert was slightly crazy for constantly talking to you," he said, holding out his hand. It still amazed him that Gilbird leaped right into it. "Now I think he really has something going here." Gilbird just peeped and flew to the top of his head, and he let him.

Suddenly there came the sound of footsteps from outside. He heard them even through closed doors and he knew that they had to be military boots of some sort. That was all the time he had to make observations before his doors were flung open and Gilbert burst into his room, his eyes huge and hair disheveled. "Fritz, please you have to help me!" He gasped, slamming the doors behind him and almost running into the room before stopping.

The sudden intrusion had surprised him, but he tried not to show it. "Gilbert, what—" he tried to say.

"I can't find Gilbird!" Prussia went on, ignoring whatever he was going to say. "I know he was with me earlier today when I went to the stables. But I think he got lost somewhere in the city or maybe he flew back here. You have to help me Fritz, please, what if he's flying around in the city somewhere and he gets eaten by a cat? Oh Gott I feel sick already—"

Indeed he did look much paler than usual and Frederick noticed that his hands were shaking. "Calm yourself, _liebeling," _he said in a desperate attempt to get him to stop ranting. "Gilbird is just fine, I—"

"How do you know?" Gilbert shot back. "He could be anywhere, probably being tormented by predators and he'd be so lost and alo—" He stopped dead in in tracks when he saw the very thing he was worried over nesting in his leader's hair with all the calmness in the world. His jaw dropped dumbly. "I—bu—how—"

Frederick smiled at him. "He has been following me around all day, looking for you." Gilbert didn't seem very capable of speaking coherently so he continued. "It was rather annoying at first, but I decided to look after him until you got back."

The last word was barely out of his mouth before he heard a squeal and Prussia all but tackled him and nearly sent them sprawling on the floor. He gasped as Gilbert swept him up in a crushing embrace. "Oh mein Gott Fritz you look so _cute!" _Gilbert shrieked, gripping him so tightly that the breath was driven from his lungs. "Have you seen yourself? You're so prim and proper and then Gilbird is just sitting in your hair and you're already so small and he's so fluffy and sweet and it's so fucking adorable!"

He would have said something about being small but he was too busy trying to breathe. "Let…go…" he gasped, trying to squirm out of that iron grip.

"Oops, sorry," Gilbert said with a nervous laugh, releasing him. He gasped in two deeps breaths and tried to muster up a glare, but Gilbert was now totally ignoring him. "And _you," _the albino said, pointing at the chick who just flown back to his usual perch. "You are such a little bitch, you know that? I was worried sick about you and I was looking over the whole damn city and I even terrified that landlord and here you are sitting with Fritz—"

The king sighed and brushed himself off. Well, things seemed to have returned to a sense of normalcy, for now anyways. He busied himself with putting away his flute, tuning out Prussia's rambling.

**Image**

He couldn't see anything.

He learned to accept that fact rather well, although that was mainly because he was still in the numb grip of shock so the full horror and pain had yet to fully seep into his muddled brain. He couldn't see, and apparently his injuries were too much for his body to immediately heal right away, since his vision remained dark. That didn't stop him from seeing, from remembering. His mind was assaulted by the memories of the moments before his blindness; he could still see the clear green grass of the field and the smoke of gunpowder and the Austrian line in front of them. But the piece of imagery that plagued him the most was the brilliant flash of fire that had exploded right in from of him the blindingly painful pain that had impaled itself through his skull. He still saw that white flash, over and over, every single time his eyes stung from the wind and smoke and whatever else they were riding through.

He flinched, unable to help himself. His eyes were still so sensitive. Everything hurt them.

The horse he and his aide were riding on jumped, and the shock of it hitting the ground again sent another wave of dizzying pain into his head. He was gripping the pommel of the saddle with his life, since his loss of vision had disoriented him and he knew damn well that he wouldn't even be able to walk without falling down. It was the most infuriating and terrifying sensation he had ever known.

"Ho!" He heard someone call as they rode up. He tried to imagine a face to go along with that voice, but the faces of people he already knew flashed in his mind's eye instead. The horse jerked to a halt, jolting him out of his musings. "What have you got here?"

The aide nimbly dismounted, but a firm hand still grasped his wrist. "The king ordered me to take General Beilschmidt to you," the man explained, helping his from his horse. He was patient and yet the only thing he did was let Prussia balance himself. Prussia was far more thankful than he let on, because he probably would have snapped at someone for trying to coddle him.

"Oh Lord!" He heard the surgeon gasp as they got closer. "What in the world does His Majesty expect us to do? We may be experienced with wounds but we're not miracle workers!"

Prussia wanted to point out that his ears still worked, and he could hear the both of them just fine, but his kept his mouth shut. There was a sour churning in his gut and he was afraid of what might come up if he opened his mouth.

"I don't know, but it's the king's orders," the aide replied, guiding him forward. "Just do what you can." For a moment the hand left him, sending him into a confusing storm of a world, but it was replaced by another, the surgeon's presumably. He hated how the hands balanced him, like an anchor keeping a ship in one place. He shouldn't _need _this help, he should be able to at least stand up on his own! He heard the aide mounting and riding off back towards the battle.

There was a beat of an awkward silence. Then a sigh. "I'm sorry, General," the surgeon told him. "But I just want you to know right now that we probably cannot save your eyes. It pains me to tell you, but I don't want to foster a false hope only to crush it later."

He nodded. In a way this man was much like himself, a realist. "I know that," he said steadily, trying not to shake. He didn't bother to tell him that his eyes would eventually heal on their own. As a nation no wound could ever permanently leave its mark on him. However only the king's surgeon and a special team of his own physicians knew him for who he really was, so he kept this one man in the dark. He cringed a little at the joke.

He felt the man jump a little as he spoke and an irrational anger rose inside him. He wanted to lash out at something, to hurt someone, just as that canister full of shrapnel had mindlessly harmed him. "It's just my eyes, surgeon," he snarled, feeling his lip curl. "The rest of me works just as well." Did the man think that he was stupid? As if the loss of one of his senses had someone damaged his mind?

He felt the surgeon flinch away, but from guilt. "Of course General. My sincerest apologies." At least he sounded sincere about it. "Come with me please, I can find us a safe spot." He felt himself being led somewhere, gently turning this way and that to avoid wounded soldiers who were being treated on the ground. All around him he heard the screams of the wounded and the dying, and their pain drove into him from all angles like needles. As they stepped around a man who had been shot in the chest, his own burned. His leg screamed in agony as they skirted a man whose broken leg was being set into a splint. There were so many wounded, and even as these men were being treated their comrades were dying out in the field, which Prussia could feel as well. Only the strength from those who were still alive kept him from collapsing.

The sound of a tent flap opening alerted him to their new location. "Zahner, I have General Beilschmidt here!" The surgeon called out. "It's the king's orders that we take care of him."

"Heavens!" He heard a new voice exclaim. "General, what in the world put you in such a sorry state?"

"Artillery," Prussia replied listlessly, trying to not to flinch and waver like he wanted to. Gods, this is slowly tearing him apart. He wanted to _see. _He wanted to look at whom he was talking to. He wanted to be able to do things without anyone's help.

Hands were on him, quickly guiding him to a cot. "Sit down," the man called Zahner said. "Or actually, lying down would be better." It was, since his head stopped spinning, but he felt the blood and fluids leaking from his eyes rolling down into his hair. "Now, can you see this?"

Prussia had no idea what he was supposed to look at in the first place, but it didn't really matter. "No," he replied, forcing to say it past the lump in his throat. He was cold, so cold. A slight shiver went through him.

"I thought not," Zahner replied ruefully, making Prussia want to scream. If he didn't think so then why torture him like this? He felt him lean closer. Then there was a gasp. "There's still shrapnel in your eyes," he whispered in a stunned sort of horror. "Bayer! Go find some assistants, we'll need them in a few moments." He heard the second man running off. "Tell me General, do your eyes still hurt?"

He tried to control his breathing. A feeling of impending doom was creeping up on him, he just knew that something terrible was about to happen. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes they do."

"Can you feel this?" Suddenly there was a touch on his eye and _something _that was embedded in his eye twitched. A yell was torn out of his throat as he felt a lance of pain stab all the way to the back of his head. "I'm so sorry General, I had to check."

His breathing had turned into panting. His heart was pounding, driving more blood out of his eyes and making his nerves throb with every beat. Despite every attempt he was making to keep himself under control, the fear, pain, shock, and the cries of his own people were wearing away at him. He just wanted to crawl away into a hole and just hide there, away from everything that could possibly hurt him. "You, come here quickly," he heard Zahner say. He sensed two of his people in the tent, including Bayer. "Hold him down. I have to remove the shrapnel from your eyes, General, and I can't have you thrashing around."

It felt as if he had just been doused in cold water. What? Oh _gods _no, please no more. He didn't think he could stand any more touching on his eyes. He'd do anything to stop it. His own fear and dread twisted the words he wanted to say and stuck them in his throat and he was unable to speak. Suddenly he felt his arms being pinned down by two heavy hands, and someone else did the same to his legs. Immediately he wanted to thrash and thrown them off, but the men were very heavy and strong. He probably could, being a nation, but for some reason his body was refusing to work correctly. "Bite on this," Zahner ordered and placed a strip of leather in his mouth. Oh no, oh no, oh no no no no. He had seen it countless times, surgeons stuffing leather or cloth into their patient's mouths so they wouldn't bite their tongue off. Because their pain was so great that they were absolutely mindless and had to be restrained or else they would hurt themselves and others.

His thoughts had been distracting him, and as a consequence he wasn't prepared for the agony that split through his head. His spine arched and he screamed at the unexpected pain, the sound muffled by his gag. It felt as if every fiber of his body was being pulled out through his eyes and set on fire. He jerked and the pain intensified, his stomach heaved and he fought down the bile rising in his throat. "Dammit Bayer, hold his head!" Hands were on his head and then he truly couldn't move at all. The pain came again and he could _feel _something being pulled out of his head, scraping against his flesh with its sharp, unnatural rough edges. He screamed again because he could hear an awful sucking noise as it was dragged out of his eyes.

Entirely of its own violation, his body jerked again, trying to throw his captors off. Just like any animal that was being hurt, he wanted to run and hide, to get away from the pain, but he could not move. He was being held down while his torturer carried out another round of pain. The pain made his vision flare white and again he could see the images in his head, of the explosion and the bodies that littered the battlefield, of the crows that would fly down to pick the warm flesh from their bones. The pain was no longer his own, but many. It was not just his voice that screamed out to the heavens, but the cries of his men, building in his chest and bursting out into freedom. And yet no matter how much he cried out to alleviate the pain it was still there, under his skin and in his veins, dancing along his nerves and promising more to come. He couldn't control his body anymore, it reacted solely on its own and it thrashed, it bucked, it clawed at the sheets on the cot like a wild animal while the others pinned him down so harshly that he would have bruises for days afterwards. A long splinter was gently pulled out of his head, but it was precisely because it was so gentle and slow that made it hurt. Being gentle drew the pain out into unbearable hours, which was more than he could take.

Something enjoyed tormenting him, he knew, because another piece of whatever the hell was still stuck in his eyes was being drawn out again—oh ye gods, there were so many! When would it ever end?—and lightning bolts of anguish blasted from his eyes and scorched his head and razed down his spine, it felt as if every inch of his skin was being peeled away by red hot pokers. It all hurt, everything hurt, everything burned, and he was trapped inside of the torment, crying out and knowing that no one cared, that they would continue their work regardless of his vocalization of his pain. His body had become a useless burning prison that going against everything it was made for, and inside of it he was floundering in a sea of agony. Time was no longer measured in seconds or minutes, but the waves and crests of pain and how long it would take for the pain to spike before mercifully dwindling back down. And it would repeat in an endless cycle.

Because he had lost all sense of time, he had no idea how long he had lain there under that inescapable torture. Finally, he broke and started to scream mindlessly. . . and scream. . . and scream. . .

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Whhooooooooa man, now you know just how my crazy sadistic self can get XDD It seems like it can be sated.**

**Wow, two Russia stories back to back? XDD Honestly, I was thinking of writing something else and suddenly my headcanon Russia tapped me on the shoulder and asked me very politely if he could be in a story. Then he sat around for the next one too. I can't quite complain though, he is my favorite character aside from Prussia and Fritz.**

**...I just now realized that RUSSIA has gotten more screentime than von Katte. Damn. It.**  
><strong><br>Forest: I'm a bit 'meh'ish on this one. My idea came through, but I don't think I executed it as nicely as I wanted to. When I saw 'Forest' I immediately thought Teutoburg Forest and then I remembered this documentary about the Roman and German relationships that I once watched with my mother, and it talked quite extensively about Arminius and Teutoburg Forest. I was quite fascinated with it and thought it would be a cool thing to write about. Prussia engineering the whole thin was sort of my headcanon since the Germanics hadn't really tried such a ploy before.**  
><strong>And as for the bird thing, it's one of the weirder quirks of my headcanon. I think Prussia can actually talk to birds and understand what they're saying. I have no clue why, I just do. XD<strong>  
><strong>If you can't tell by now, Fritz really had no love for the Hungarians. Unsurprising, given all of the trouble they gave him and his army during the First Silesian War, attempting to kidnap him aside. They were always called bandits and rogues and really none of the Prussians liked them because they were fond of ambushing them and stealing their stuff XDD Eventually the Prussian hussar sdecided that two could play at that game and ambushes became more common on both sides.<strong>  
><strong><br>Master: Yaaaay Russia! What I find hilarious is that I was orginally going to write this as Germancest (because _come on,_ "Master?" Too friggin easy) but then out of nowehere here comes my headcanon Russia and this happened XD I've wanted to write something with Russia and Prussia for a while so I wasn't all that miffed about losing my Germancest.**  
><strong>This was mainly inspired by a bit of information that I once heard. when the USSR took over half of Germany, they had Old Fritz's statue removed from Berlin. However, a few decades later they put it back. What surprised me most was why they didn't get rid of it or melt it down to use the metal. After all it had no purpose for them, so why would they keep it for so long? Then headcanon Ivan gave me a totally twisted idea as to why, and I had to write that in. Sanssouci was also spared, but probably because they didn't want to destroy an old and beautiful palace.<strong>  
><strong>Btw "moi droog" should mean "my friend." I didn't use the Russian alphabet because I don't think many of you can read it, so I sounded it out :P<strong>  
><strong><br>Mercy: Ivan didn't want to leave just yet XD I got this idea when I learned that in the 1974 FIFA World Cup, the match was hosted in West Germany (Berlin) and that at one point the teams of East Germany and West Germany ended up facing off. The plot bunny was too juicy to resist. Of course that meant that Prussia would go to West Germany, and I needed to think of a reason for him to go.**  
><strong>And yes, I am aware of the hints of RusPru to all of you squinters out there. However I really don't like the pairing, unless it's one-sided (Russia's side in this case) or psychologically messed up (i.e. Stockholm Syndrome or something similar.) Anyone who knows Prussian and Russian history will know that they <em>hated<em> each other and I can never see Gilbert ever liking Ivan in a romantic way, ever. I can see Ivan doing it, but not Gilbert.**  
><strong>I didn't mention Albania as a satellite state because Soviet relations with them were going reaaallly bad (actually I think it broke off but I'm not sure) and Ivan would not be happy with him in the slightest. Yugoslavia "not feeling well" is due to the fact that it was breaking up at this point due to all the riots and the bad economy it was having at the time.<strong>  
><strong>Funny little note: East Germany won their match against West Germany XDDDD<strong>

**Letters: Oh Gilbo, I love you. Even when you're a bastard. Since my headcanon has Gilbert going over to America with Baron von Steuben to help with the Revolutionary War, I always wondered what Fritz did in the meantime. I think they used Gilbird to send letters, and Gilbert decided to mess with his king, probably getting back at him for all the times that Fritz messed with him.**  
><strong>I don't know why, but to me Fritz is like one of those people where if you don't answer their letters they freak out and think something bad happened to you XD Or at least he's that way with Prussia.<strong>  
><strong>I even have a headcannon for how my characters write my letters. Fritz really did sign his name as Frédéric in his letters, being the wannabe Frenchie that he was. Gilbert usually uses people's first names or nicknames, but if he's in a hurry then he just uses the first letter in their name. Francis always changes his greetings (although he has to have 'dear' or 'love' or something similar in there) but he never changes his closing sentence. And he likes to kiss his letters. XD<strong>  
><strong><br>Vacuum: The moral of this story: before you go to screw your brother on the couch, make sure you turn off the vacuum first.**  
><strong>At first I didn't intend to make this so...slashy XD I was going to have Ludwig cleaning and Gilbird getting sucked into a vacuum, but as I was in the middle of writing I saw that it was just becoming slashier and slashier. Evidently my Germancest didn't like Russia taking its screentime and it was coming back with a vengeance XDD Unfortunately I cannot take complete credit for my pink-apron headcanon, because that was actually inspired by a fill I read on LJ a while ago.<strong>  
><strong>One of my headcanons is that it's rather difficult to convince Germany to have sex, but once you do he turns into the sadist that we all know and love ;)<strong>  
><strong><br>Zoo: Personally I have nothing against zoos at all. In fact the only thing that I dislike are circuses (which I blame Dumbo for completely) and that's why this isn't set in the modern day. Probably when circuses were really popular i.e. the late 1800s—early 1900s. Before the World Wars obviously XD**  
><strong>Large headcanon events here. I think that Gilbert doesn't really like zooscircuses and one day he turned all of the animals loose so they could be free. Whether that was actually helpful or not is questionable though.**

**Attraction: I've tried to stay away from Gakuken Hetalia, since my knowledge of it can be written on a fingernail with room to spare, but I had to eventually because the wonderful kuroneko3132 on Deviantart draws it so beautifully that I was totally suckered in XDD Of course in here I made Fritz quite bit younger, but that's just my personal preferance.**  
><strong>In real life Fritz was only 5' 5". I find that absolutely adorable. (And awesome since I'm only an inch shorter than him.) And as for his HAIR. I'll tell you right now that he was not blond. People just assumed he's blond because he powdered his hair, like everyone that age did. I've heard from other people, Germans themselves, that his hair was brown, but in my biography about him it once described his hair as <em>auburn.<em> So to make everyone happy my Fritz has a mahogany hair color, which is reddish brown.**  
><strong>For some reason I can see Fritz as being a totally cool teacher, very laidback and stuff, but you must do your work XD And he doesn't mind Lovino swearing like a sailor. He doesn't mind a lot of things actually.<strong>

**Feather: Why won't this storyline leave me alone? I had something else planned for this put the line with feather-trimmed hat suddenly came out of bumblefuck NOWHERE and blew all of my other ideas away. I've wanted to write as Schwerin for a long while so I had to do this, but I thin I didn't quite capture his voice. Maybe when the circumstances are less extreme XD**  
><strong>I wanted to show you some of what the others were up to while Frederick had been kidnapped, and how devastated Prussia was. Schwerin was also a very good friend of Fritz's at the time, so he was feeling pretty miserable himself. Poor Schwerin never took his losses too well, poor guy. (Btw this is still AU, just so you know)<strong>

**Noise: So. CUTE. I have an odd headcanon about Gilbird. While I believe that the bird can be idiotic as any other bird sometimes, I think that Gilbird was actually very smart and can understand what humans say very well. Being around a country so long changed him in some ways, and made him smarter than other birds. He's also slightly immortal himself, being with Prussia for so long.**  
><strong>This was actually based off of a small drawing I once did, where Fritz was playing his flute. I randomly drew Gilbird on his head, then drew some notes to make it look like Gilbird was singing along. Inspiration then hit like a bomb. The mental image was soooo cute.<strong>  
><strong>Lol poor Fritz, being bothered like that. At least it was worth his time<strong>

**Image: So. About this. Obviously this is a continuation of "Sight," because some of you wanted me to continue it, and I wanted to continue it so it was a healthy agreement ^_^ I reaaalllly wanted to put Prussia in a lot of pain here, but I wanted to also show how frustrated he was at being utterly helpless. In my mind Prussia hates showing any form of weakness, but this whole blindness thing has him totally out of his depth and he doesn't know how to deal with it, and that's immensely frustrating and terrifying to him. In short he's just this big ol' bundle of conflicting, chaotic emotions. Then I had to pull out the whummpage, yet again. This whole story took me an obscenely long time to write, mainly because I was distracted, but also because I was trying to find JUST the write words to try and get my message across.**  
><strong>Ugh. I'm trying not to make Doctor Zahner into an OC, since I know some people don't like them, but he won't go away. ಠ_ಠ<strong>


	12. White Day - Night

**A/N: Sadly, I did not write anything special for Gilbo's birthday because I was too bustywith my story for Fritz's birthday. So you guys can have another chapter to compensate XDDD**

**And on a completely different note: Over 100,000 words! HELL YEAH!**

* * *

><p><strong>White Day<strong>

"Hey Kiku, what's happening?"

The small man jumped a little as he heard Prussia's voice behind him. His pencil slipped out of his fingers and clattered noisily to the floor. "Oh, I did not hear you Mister Prussia!" he exclaimed, quickly bending down to pick it up.

Prussia grinned lazily at him. "Aw, c'mon Kiku, you can call me Gilbert, you know that well enough by now." He leaned against the couch, leaning on his forearms.

Kiku looked up at him, tilting his head to one side. A tiny, almost invisible smile hovered around his lips. Yet such a tiny change was immediately noticeable in the man's usually blank face. "Yes, I do know that Prussia-kun," he said, ignoring Gilbert's long-suffering sigh. "However I find your reactions amusing." Now he was truly smiling, and it lit up his dark eyes beautifully. For a moment Prussia could do nothing but stare at that face and that smile, but then a slight blush rose to Japan's cheeks when he realized that he was being watched and he quickly turned back to his drawing pad.

Gilbert chuckled when he noticed Kiku's far-too-cute shyness. "Whatcha drawing?" he asked, leaning further over the couch to look over his shoulder. "Hey is that us?" He plucked the drawing pad out of Kiku's hands, ignoring his gasp of protest. Immediately his eyebrows shot up and he whistled. "Whoa Kiku, I didn't know you had such an imagination." A shit-eating grin formed across his face as he flicked back a page. "Holy hell! Wait a sec I thought you said you didn't like my toys that much."

The blush had deepened with every one of Gilbert's sentences, and now Kiku's entire face was red. "May I have that back?" he demanded with all the dignity he could muster, holding out his hand.

"Hang on a sec," Gilbert replied, flipping through it. "Me and West? Damn Kiku, you never said you liked it kinky! Hey wait a moment…is that—" He was so shocked that he let Kiku snatch his drawing pad from his hands without the slightest fuss. He stood there, blinking for a few moments while Japan clutched his pad to his chest possessively.

The pale nation was silent for so long that Kiku gave him a small, concerned glance. "Prussia-kun?" he asked softly. Not that the unassuming nation of Japan could speak in a different tone anyway.

As if he had been hit, Gilbert snapped out of his reverie. "Oh sorry," he said sheepishly. "I was just thinking about what you drew." He coughed a little, color rising to his cheeks as he said that.

Japan plucked a little at his sleeve. "You um, told me that the two of you were lovers, once," he said, a defensive edge rising to his voice.

"Oh I know," Gilbert assured him with a smile. "What I meant to say was that you draw pretty damn good. He looked kinda hot actually, just like he used to." Almost unconsciously his eyes drifted over to the picture that hung on the wall, the one depicting his most beloved king.

"Thank you," Kiku said, bowing slightly. This time his blush was one of pleasure, and his smile had returned.

Gilbert shook his head, forcefully bringing himself back to the present. "Anyways, you were distracting me. Great." He threw the smaller man a mock glare.

"That does seem to be a common problem whenever I am around you," Kiku remarked dryly. "I think 'daydreaming' would actually be a better term."

"Oh be quiet," Gilbert said before grabbing his wrist. He ignored how Kiku jumped at the contact. "Come on, I have something to show you."

Usually those words could be promising something either very good or very bad. "What is it?" Kiku asked somewhat suspiciously.

"It's a surprise," Gilbert replied enigmatically. He gave his arm a little tug. "Come ooooon, I promise that you'll love it."

Now, "love it" was quite a bit of a stretch for Kiku. Most of the time he was rather pleased or simply thankful for a gift, but loving it was a different story altogether. It wasn't that he couldn't love—Gilbert himself was proof of that—it was just that he did not overreact to many of the gifts that were given to him and attach such a strong sentimental value to it. To show his confusion, he raised both of his eyebrows and tilted his head to one side _just _a little, letting his expression speak for himself.

That expression sent a pang of joy right into Prussia's heart. Kiku looked so _cute _when he was confused, like a little kitten, and the ex-nation wanted to do nothing but pull him into a hug and just squeeze and squeeze. But he knew that the small man wasn't particularly fond of physical contact (at least during the _day _he wasn't) so he tried to keep himself in check. Instead he just tugged Kiku along. "Close your eyes," he said as they got closer to the kitchen.

"Why?" he was immediately asked.

"Because it's a surprise."

He felt Japan squirming a little in his grasp. "Prussia-kun, the last time you asked me to close my eyes I found myself tied up in a very compromising position afterwards—"

"And do you _really _regret that?" Prussia asked, giving his captive a rather lecherous grin.

A slight tremble went through Kiku's body. "N-No," he managed to stammer out, his face still a little pink.

"Exactly, because my ideas are awesome. Now close your eyes."

He saw that Kiku still looked a bit wary, but he obediently closed his eyes anyway. Gilbert mentally tacked that as a victory for himself and led them into the kitchen. He had cleaned it up before he went to see Kiku, since it wouldn't have been very smart to give him a present in the middle of a near-ruined kitchen. And it was thanks to his awesome cleaning skills that it was now spotless and shiny as if West himself had just been in there. He grinned widely to himself and stopped in front of the kitchen table, for a second savoring the sight before tapping the smaller man on one of his bony shoulders. "Okay, you can open your eyes."

He did so, and then they widened in shock. "Prussia-kun, what is this?" he asked, staring at the things that had been arranged on the table in front of him.

Gilbert smiled widely. "Weeellll~ _that _right there is a cake, I made it myself you know, and that is a box of chocolate, and that is a little gift I bought for you." He pointed out each of the items as he described them: a small cake decorated in white icing, a white box shaped like a heart, and another white box that was slightly smaller. "Wanna try the cake? It's chocolate."

He got no response. Kiku just stared at the gifts for a few long moments, then he turned to Gilbert and asked, "Why did you get these?"

At that Prussia raised his eyebrows. "Well it's White Day today, is it not?" He saw Kiku's thunderstruck expression and had to laugh. "Kesesesese~! Oh come on, I wouldn't be so unawesome as to ignore my cute little lover's holidays, would I? Besides, it sounds pretty cool, giving stuff back as a thank you. I tried to stick with the 'three times as many' rule, which is why I got you three things. Now, what do you want first?" He plopped his head down on top of Kiku's and waited for him to reply.

Because he was not looking at him, he did not see the wide smile that was spreading on Kiku's face and would have sent in in raptures of joy if he did see it. "Thank you, Gilbert," the Asian nation said quietly, reaching up to pat his face. "I would not mind some cake, if that's alright with you."

"It's your cake, why should I mind?" Gilbert asked, rolling his eyes. Nevertheless he used a knife to cut off a piece of cake and handed it to him on a little paper plate that was decorated with yellow chicks. He boasted at how awesome his cooking skills were and told Japan the entire tale of how he made the cake from scratch, even including that he had to make another batch of icing because Gilbird somehow fell into the first one. He couldn't help but realize that Kiku had a pleased blush to his face throughout the whole story as he listened to all the work that Gilbert went through to make something for him, and it gave him an egotistical surge of pride to see that only _he _could make the usually reserved nation blush that way. When he was done with his cake Gilbert insisted that he open the rest of his presents, especially the one tied with a ribbon. He tried a few pieces of chocolate, white of course, and then went to the box. The moment he lifted the lid he froze, at first not processing what he was seeing. "Like it?" Gilbert asked, grinning wolfishly. "Why don't you try them on?"

Immediately Kiku's face flushed a deep red. "No! I—Prussia-kun—you—" he trailed off uncertainly, his eyes glued on the scraps of white lace in the box.

"What?" Gilbert said, his face the perfect picture of innocence. "I thought you were supposed to buy this kinda stuff on White Day." He hooked his finger around a bra and pulled it out, dangling it in front of Kiku's face. "I know they're the right size too, measured 'em myself." He swung it around the joint of his finger, unable to keep the grin off of his face for even ten seconds.

"I don't think—" Kiku started, his entire face red. He seemed to be at a complete loss on what to say, so he simply turned and started to run out of the room.

In an instant Prussia was running after him. "Come on Kiku, I've seen your porn collection, I know you're into this kind of stuff!" He yelled, waving the lingerie around like Italy waving a white flag. A few seconds later he added, "I can tell your nose is bleeding! Come here!"

**Anxiety**

"Oh for the love of gods will you just screw him already?"

Frederick nearly leaped out of his skin when he said that and thankfully he did not scream like last time. He whirled around, eyes huge and a blush already on his face. "Heavens, Gilbert, stop sneaking up on me like that!" he whispered.

Gilbert rolled his eyes with a snort. "I didn't sneak up on you. If you were paying the slightest bit of attention then you would have heard me coming. But you were focusing on a certain someone else for the thousandth time." He peered out of the doorway with Fritz, ignoring the prince's gasp and the hand trying to drag him back. "I have to ask, what do you see in him? He's pretty popular among the troops and all, but what has my Prince so lovestruck?" At Fritz's sputtering he grinned. "Oh come on Fritz, anyone with eyes can see it. You aren't doing a good job of hiding yourself."

"Oh be quiet," Fritz murmured, finally dragging him back into the hall.

"I gotta tell you Fritz, hiding around and sneaking looks from one of the servant's doorways isn't exactly awesome. Actually it's pretty stalkerish." He could tell that Fritz wasn't exactly listening to him, or at least listening with all ears like he should have. The nerve of the kid, ignoring his awesome advice! "Hey, Romeo, I'm talking to you here!" He poked him hard in the shoulder.

An irritated sigh reached his ears. "What?" Fritz snapped, turning to glare at him. That actually brought him up short, because the prince very rarely showed him anything but a sincere kindness.

But Prussia wouldn't be his awesome self if he was brought down by some look from a teenager, absolutely not! "Damn, calm down Fritz," he said. He waited until some of the anger had left Fritz's eyes before continuing. "Now, you never answered my question. Tell me, what makes Lieutenant Hans Hermann von Katte of the Prussian army so special? Not even the pretty Count Orzelska caught your eye for this long." He smiled at that, trying to diffuse the situation a little.

Frederick knew that Gilbert was baiting him, and he found himself faced with two options. He could either ignore the jibe and answer Gilbert's question (and the thought made his gut flop uneasily) or he could defend his younger self against the little remarks that Gilbert loved to throw out concerning his brief infatuation with the Polish king's mistress. Of course that would get Gilbert off his back for a little while, but the nation would just return to the topic sooner or later, totally undaunted, until he finally pried the information out of him. Sometimes his stubbornness was infuriating, and yet Fritz couldn't help but admire it. He shrugged a little, unsure of how to adequately put his feelings into words. "He's kind to me," he said at last, rather lamely.

He could _hear _Gilbert's eyes rolling. "And that's real damn special. Specifics Fritz."

He sighed at that. "What do you want me to say?" he demanded, his odd and irrational anger coming out again. "Because I can't think of anything that can truly describe how I feel. You can't just put love into so many neat little words, Gilbert." He almost winced as he said that, but he held firm, because he was certain that he loved Katte. He had never been more certain of anything else in his life.

Oddly, he did not hear the disparaging remarks he expected to hear from Gilbert. Instead there was a softer sigh and a quiet, "I know." He turned a little at that and saw Gilbert leaning against the wall, casual as could be. "I'm asking for a reason though. Lots of people are kind to you, oh don't make that face you know it's true, so why fall in love with Katte particularly?"

A part of him wanted to ask why in the world it was any of Prussia's business, but he knew that Gilbert was quite nosy so this was nothing new. Again he shrugged. Honestly the Crown Prince did not know what to say, which was up until this moment something unheard of. He could tell that Gilbert was growing annoyed again, and he had to say something. "This is different," he threw out, so quickly that he actually surprised himself. But more words were rising to his lips, suddenly springing into existence in a jumbled heap that crowded themselves to get past them. The floodgates seemed to have opened. "He's kind in a different way. Everyone else is just polite and only then that's because I'm the prince and they have to be nice to me. You and Wilhelmine are the only people who are actually honest about your kindness, and dammit so is Katte!" He peeked out again, watching the troops outside drill, picking out the face he was looking for within seconds. "I can be myself around him," he found himself saying. "Like with you. I don't have to hide around him, I don't have to put on airs or try to live up to his expectations or play little games with him. I can say or do what I want around him and he doesn't scold me or hate me for it, and no one except you has ever done that to me before." The words came tumbling out of him in a rush, right from his heart and into the air and he wanted to run and lock himself in a closet somewhere and hide for the rest of his life.

Gilbert was silent for a while after that. He felt him step closer to him so he could watch the soldier with him. Fritz didn't really like watching Katte either, but it was the only way he could look at him, since whenever the man was nearby his tongue would tie up and he would make a complete fool of himself. "So," Gilbert started after a few minutes. "Are you gonna go screw him or do I have to lock you two in a closet together?"

"Gilbert, please—" he said, his patience growing thin.

"I'm dead serious Fritz." Gilbert cut him off. "What do you have to gain by keeping your silence?"

"And think of what I'll lose by breaking it," Frederick replied. His heart pounded with fear at the idea of telling Katte how he felt….Hell just telling Gilbert had his mouth dry. "What if he rejects me?"

"What if he doesn't?" Gilbert said.

He twisted the hem of his shirt nervously. It was dangerous to think such a thing, since that would foster false optimism. But oh he wanted so _badly _for it to be true, but if it wasn't then he doubted that he could take it. "I don't even know if he feels the same about me," he murmured.

"You'll never know if you don't ask," Gilbert said, sounding uncharacteristically wise.

Frederick didn't answer. The words floated endlessly in his head, circling his mind over and over and carefully peeling away his resolve. He wished he could be like Gilbert, who hardly ever thought about things and reacted on impulses. He would have confessed a long time ago if he had, but now he found himself always thinking over his decisions and second guessing himself. In the parade grounds the march ended and the soldiers were marched off in an orderly fashion. Katte remained behind. The lad paced around a little bit, obviously in deep thought. Seeing him in such a calm and carefree state, without the careful veil of control and politeness he had to pull over himself whenever in the Crown Prince's presence, was a treat to witness.

However, Prussia simply would not let him indulge in the sight. "Frederick," he said, laying a hand on his shoulder. That made him jump, because Prussia almost never called him by his actual name. "You're not doing yourself any favors by constantly denying yourself of what you want."

"How do you know?" he asked. "Have you ever been in love?"

The silence he heard after that surprised him. He expected Gilbert's usual quick responses, but one did not seem to be forthcoming. "This isn't about me," Gilbert said at last, although Frederick could tell that his voice was a bit strained. "This is about you and what you want. Just think about it this way: if you confess your feelings, then you at least have half a chance of succeeding. But if you keep silent, then you automatically lose."

Frederick bit his lip uneasily. Well when he put it that way. . . He sighed and blinked, then noticed that someone was walking towards them. "Oh God he's coming here!" he gasped, his heart leaping into his throat.

The hand on his shoulder tightened. "Don't you dare go anywhere," he heard Gilbert warn him.

He couldn't have gotten far anyway, because only a few handful of seconds later von Katte stepped through the doorway that they had been spying on him through. "_Guten Tag, General Beilschmidt, Prinz Friedrich." _He said smoothly and bowed to them. Prussia wondered just how long he knew that they were there.

He didn't even have to look at Frederick to know that he was blushing. For once he decided to be merciful and saved Fritz the embarrassment of having to scramble for an answer. "_Guten Tag, _Lieutenant Katte," he replied, saluting the young man. "That drill out there was splendid, as if the king himself was watching it. Was he?"

"Unfortunately not," Katte replied, shaking his head. His gaze turned to Frederick and Prussia could actually see the lines around his eyes and mouth soften. _No. Way. _"You don't need to show any aloofness toward me, Friedrich," he said, apparently a little put out that Frederick had not yet answered him or even acknowledged his presence. "We're all friends here."

Well Katte didn't seem to be going to any lengths to hide his affections, unlike Fritz. It was so obvious that for a moment Gilbert could do nothing but stare dumbly and try not to let his jaw drop. Fritz's face had turned such a bright red that only someone who was color blind could have missed it. "I know," he answered at last with a smile that thankfully didn't look very forced. "_Merci."_

Katte smiled at that and met his prince's eyes boldly. All of a sudden Gilbert was pretty sure that the two of them had completely forgotten his presence by now. If chemistry had a feeling then it would have been a tidal wave of energy crashing over the lot of him. He knew right then and there that Fritz's silly little crush was entirely mutual.

Great, now all he had to do was get the both of them to see it.

**Prison**

If there was any place on Earth that might possibly be Hell relocated, that place would be Küstrin. It was absolutely awful, with its damp chills and the awful stench that came from the nearby marshes, of the faceless soldiers that would not look at him or even acknowledge his presence, of the meager food that would have even a beggar turning up their nose, and of the utter silence and desolation of the whole area. They were the very things that grated on Frederick's soul, and it had already gone through quite enough within the past few weeks. He felt as if he were walking along an edge, and one little nudge would send him reeling back into that oblivion of insanity that he had so recently climbed out of.

What had to be the worst was the boredom. It was the thing that Frederick hated the most, and the few books that he had procured (through bribery and charm, of course) were eventually engraved into his memory and could offer no more relief from his suffering. In the long hours between his sessions with Müller he had nothing that could occupy his time, so his thoughts most unwillingly came to torment him during those long periods of emptiness.

Katte was always there, his smiling face hovering in the back of his mind (and no longer standing next to him as if he were in the same room, thank god) his voice murmuring soothingly to him, like it had so many times in the past. And then the image would morph into blood and death and the vision of his love's headless body lying in the sand kept returning to haunt him. The sight had been branded into his memory for perhaps the rest of his life, and he was trapped by it, drowning in it. Grief was his constant companion, but so was fear. He could hardly remember being more terrified in his life. He knew that his father was eagerly waiting for him to make one more mistake and give him and excuse to do the same thing to his son, and Frederick, for all of his moaning and complaining about how bad his life was, most certainly did not want to die. At least not anymore.

So what was he to do? On one hand he still hated his father with every fiber of his being and wanted to show it, but then there was his newfound fear and caution that was binding him and keeping him silent. He found both urges pulling him in different directions and at the moment he wasn't sure what he wanted to do. He was putting on airs for Müller and the others, but what was he really going to do? All of the different thoughts and emotions made an even worse cage than the stone walls or barred window ever could.

Because of this, he practically leaped to his feet in joy when he heard that he had an unexpected, unscheduled visitor.

Until he saw who it was.

His spirits had begun to soar when he heard to news, but then they froze and crystalized and fell back down when he saw that all-too familiar pale figure appear outside of his door. Prussia didn't look an inch different from when he last saw him, except his mouth was twisted into a grim line and there were circles under his eyes. A memory flashed—unbidden and unwelcome—of Prussia standing in the courtyard below his window, straight-backed and unflinching as ever, his sword glittering in the cold sunlight…He wrenched those memories from his head and stared at the nation.

Prussia's eyes roamed the cell for a moment and the soldier had to suppress a flinch. No furniture except an entirely too small cot and a waste bucket. Of course his trained eye immediately detected a very misshapen pillow, no doubt molded into its current state from the books and candles that were stuffed inside of it. Not that he was going to tell anyone of course. He saw Fritz tremble anyway when his eyes rested on it. Or was that fear of him? Had Katte's execution finally driven a wedge between them?

Frederick's eyes met his own. The fire in them was now nothing but ashes, piercing sky blue faded to a dull bluish gray. A long minute passed where neither of them spoke and they simply stared at each other. The air between them was heavy, and not because the marshes near the Oder River were particularly wet this year. Finally Fritz was the one who broke the silence. "What do you want, Prussia?" he asked, his voice just as flat as his eyes.

That simple sentence pierced Prussia's heart in about five different ways. So he was just Prussia now, no longer Gilbert? Fritz never called him by his country name, ever. And the _way _he said it, without malice and without accusation, but apathetic and dead, as if all the life had been sucked out of him, drove a nail of agony right into the immortal man's flesh. Gilbert had been terrified that Fritz would hate him forever after what he had done, but hearing him speak in a shell of his normal voice was far, far worse. At least hatred would show that the prince he knew was still there, was still fighting. He swallowed and tried to keep his face calm and controlled. Actually he had no business at all being in this cell, but Frederick William never said that he couldn't visit the kid. "I wa—" his voice crackled and he had to clear his throat before starting again. "I wanted to see how you were doing." That was the truth, although he had delayed his coming because he hadn't been sure how Frederick would react and he had only now worked up his courage.

This was not awesome at all, the mighty Prussia caring about the opinions of an eighteen-year old. But he supposed that Fritz had a certain privilege of getting him to do that.

Fritz eyes narrowed, although he did not try to deny it. He lowered his gaze thoughtfully and happened to catch a glimpse of light winking off of metal. His blood truly froze when he realized that Prussia was carrying his sword with him, that odd longsword which he refused to trade out with any of the more recent and fashionable swords and always kept it with him. It was very old, supposedly the same sword Gilbert used in his days of being a knight, but it was still sharp. Fritz had not actually seen the beheading, having fainted before the sword even struck, but he had been told that the blade had sliced neatly through skin and muscle and bone as if it were all made of warm butter. The hairs on his neck rose as he pictured the event happening.

Prussia followed his gaze and nearly choked. He quickly slid his belt around so it was mostly out of sight, mentally kicking himself for not taking it off before he came in. His movements seemed to bring Fritz back to the present. "You can go tell my father that I am quite miserable, since nothing pleases him more," the prince said, his usual mask of arrogance and haughtiness sliding back into place.

He tried not to sigh. "I'm not here for the king, Fritz," he said quietly. He could tell that Fritz didn't quite believe him, but he could also tell that Fritz had his doubts. "I'm here because I wanted to come."

"Then why didn't you come earlier?" Frederick demanded.

_I tried. I tried and_—"Well, you weren't quite yourself a few days earlier," he said, tactfully sidestepping any offense he might give. "I was waiting until you recovered some of your health."

Fritz closed his eyes and quietly exhaled through his nose, then looked up again. Prussia saw something flickering in his expression, but he wasn't sure what it was. Frederick wanted so badly to shout: "Well how the hell do you _think _I'm doing?" but he knew that would most likely cause an argument, and he didn't feel like arguing with anyone now, especially Gilbert. "I'm not going to lie and say that I'm fine," it gave him a small, twisted satisfaction at seeing Prussia flinch ever so slightly when he said that, "but I will recover."

Gilbert nodded silently and felt the dread in his chest growing tighter. Alright, this was officially a bad idea. He was glad to see that Fritz was at least coherent and no longer having fits and hallucinations, but there seemed to be a new obstacle in place. He could barely read the kid at all. He saw his expressions just fine, but before this he had always been able to tell what was going on inside that sharp mind of the prince's. Now he stared blankly at the prisoner, so many words pressing at his throat, words he desperately wanted to say, but words he also feared to say because he had no idea how Frederick would react. It was as if a wall of glass had come between them, where they could see and hear each other just fine, but they could not touch and a nearly invisible barrier blocked off the closeness they had in the past. Fritz was staring at him, plainly waiting for him to reply, and he chose one of the many things he wanted to ask. "What are you going to do now?" Probably not the safest topic, but without a doubt the most important.

In answer, Fritz shrugged. "I'm not sure," he said. "What I want to do is conflicting with what I need to do." He paused for a moment. "And no doubt you already have something to tell me."

Alright, this little pessimistic stuff was starting to get on his nerves. The only reason why he didn't snap at him was because Fritz was actually right. "I would advise you to just do as your father says," he said. Fritz's head whipped up to stare at him in utter shock. "What? It's only until the old man croaks."

"Are you mad?" Frederick asked. "How could I possibly do what he says? Am I to submit to him and bend over backwards like some sort of slave?"

"Exactly, because if you don't then you'll be digging yourself into an even deeper hole than you're in now. Already it's big enough to be your grave, and it was a miracle that the king didn't bury you in it!" He reeled himself in for a moment, trying not to shout at him. "You were saved by a hair, Fritz, and the king is still looking for a way to punish you. At least have some sense not to blindly throw yourself back into trouble and ignore the dangers! What would Katte think if his sacrifice had gone to waste?" Dammit! He nearly slapped himself. He had told himself earlier that he wasn't going to bring up Katte, but the words seemed to have slipped out on their own.

Immediately Fritz's eyes darkened in anger. "Don't you dare talk about Katte!" he hissed, balling his fists up. "You have no right to bring him up after what you did."

Salt being rubbed in already raw wounds made him tense in a similar anger. To anyone else he probably had no right to talk about Katte, especially after the execution, but as a nation he did. "He was one of my people," he snapped back. "My blood and my life, my children. I have every right to talk about him!" He went on before Fritz could think of a retort. "But enough about Katte. You have to do this Frederick, it's your only chance at getting out of here."

Fritz shook his head, looking pained and regretful. "I can't. I can't let myself be pulled around like a dog on a chain and ordered this way and that and take everything with a nod and a smile. I won't sink into that servant-like obedience the same way you have."

The words were like a fresh slap to the face. Fritz had immediately hit him in one of his most sensitive spots; he hated having to submit to the will of others and he hated the fact that he had to do literally everything his king ordered him to do. His anger flamed up in an instant and he shot back, "Servant I may be, but if you'll notice it's not _my _friends who are getting their heads chopped off!" It was petty in the extreme, picking at each other's weaknesses like that, but in a way it also felt kind of good.

He knew even before the words were fully out of his mouth that they were the absolute worst things to say, and the way Fritz's face twisted in pain was a testament to that. The prince leaped to his feet and the fury he saw burning in those eyes actually made him take a step back. There was the anger he was looking for, which was both comforting an agonizing at the same time. He knew that if he had been standing closer then Fritz would have punched him right in his jaw. "Leave," Frederick growled.

"You can't order me out of a prison cell." Gods, why did he always have to have the last word? Regardless of what he had just said he turned and headed for the door, making sure to slam it and lock it on his way out. The guards outside gave him an odd look as he swept by, but he didn't care. He just wanted out of this damp hole of a fortress so the sunshine and air could clear away the words that were still replaying over in his head. "_The same way you have." _

**Heart**

Prussia decided that the heart was a stupid, silly thing to have. It was important, yes, but it was also stupid, especially when it kept doing all of these unawesome things. He was sure that Fritz was somehow responsible, because it only happened when he was around.

For example, Prussia could be sitting by himself, going over reports with all the casualness in the world and everything would be fine and dandy. Then Fritz would walk in and when he looked over at him his heart would jump. Yes, it would fucking _jump._ What the _hell? _And then it would start to race for absolutely no reason at all. It was terribly confusing, because he had not been running or drilling and as far as he could tell they were not under attack, so it had been spazzing out for no reason at all. Then Fritz would smile that wonderful warm smile at him and his heart would start to flip-flop in his chest and that would make him short of breath and even his stomach felt funny. With that his confusion turned into alarm because his body was doing all of these weird things without reason, and he had no idea what it was trying to tell him.

Of course Fritz could tell that something was up because he had always been able to read him like a book and at times it was really annoying. He would ask what was wrong in that gentle, concerned tone and Gilbert knew that the warmth in his veins was not because of the temperature in the room. Perhaps it was gratitude? He had no idea, but seeing a king who seemed to genuinely care for his health made him feel all fuzzy and warm, as if he were being covered in fluffy bird down. He didn't want Fritz to worry, because whenever he worried his heart did all sorts of funny things that were actually a little painful (was his heart trying to kill him or something?) so he just laughed it all off and pretended that he was fine, even though he wasn't.

Besides, he doubted that Fritz could help him much anyways. His little king always prided himself on being logical and practical, and whatever the hell was going on with him was _not _logical and _not _practical. Sometimes he would sit alone and rest his hand over his heart, feeling every steady beat and waiting for it to jump again. Of course it wouldn't, because the heart was stupid and unawesome. It was as if he had some sort of illness that made his heart beat faster and his stomach tighten and his skin tingle at random intervals. It sucked. It wasn't quite as random as it seemed, since it only happened around Fritz, which was just plain _weird. _Maybe there was something about his king that set it off. Was he having some sort of allergic reaction? As far as he knew nations weren't really allergic to anything, but it was the only possible explanation he could think of.

Even though his heart was being unawesome, that didn't stop him from spending as much time as he possibly could with Frederick. Heart flipping out or not, he was still _happy _whenever Fritz was around, happier than he could remember being in a long time. It was probably because Frederick William was finally dead and the tyranny and yelling and beatings had stopped. They were at war with that sissy aristocrat, and his cultured king was turning out to be a soldier as well. He was smart, funny, sharper than a knife, educated, kind, but also fierce and ambitious. He was everything Prussia could have ever wanted in a king, and more. He would have been happy for perhaps the rest of his life if his heart never decided to do any of the things that it was doing now, which was really starting to freak him out. It was driving him out of his mind, and he could tell because when he had nothing else to do he would think about Fritz. He could just be out riding or playing with Gilbird and all of a sudden he would think about his king and his heart would beat faster.

Gottverdammt! Now this illness was affecting his thoughts as well? Why in the world would he think about Fritz? Sure he was his king and all, and pretty awesome, but the way he kept popping up in his thoughts was creepy. Not to mention it was making that muscle in his chest act up again and that was always a downside. Yet he was actually a little happy whenever he thought about him. Why in the world that was he had no idea, and his mind and body seemed to be contradicting each other. He was happy when he was around his king, but his heart felt funny every time it happened, which was not a good thing and the two impulses were giving him a monumental headache.

He wished he could reconcile the two. Then perhaps everything would be fine.

**Pirate**

The hot midday sun beat down upon the ship that was plowing through the ocean waves, driving a searing ray of heat into whatever unlucky souls that happened to be standing on the decks. Those on watch pulled their hats (if they had any) further down their heads and those without headgear fanned themselves with their hands or handkerchiefs or whatever else they could find. The only thing that stopped the day from becoming like one of the pits of Hell was that it was very breezy, and the sailors welcomed every little gust that came through.

Captain Frederick was not as bothered by the heat as the rest of his crew. It was ungodly hot, yes, but he happened to be on the quarterdeck, where the wind was the strongest. He quietly paced along the railing of the ship, running his hand along the wood, which was smooth and warm under his hand. No doubt countless other hands had traced the same patterns that he was doing now, which had in turn worn down the wood. The _Prussia _may have been a little old for a ship, but she was fast and loaded with firepower. His recent innovations had put the old frigate back into its top shape and she could probably go up against one of the precious flagships of the Royal Navy. At least in theory. They hadn't yet run into a flagship to test it on. He tapped his nails against the railing contemplatively, then turned to look at the quartermaster manning the wheel.

Even though Schwerin was busy turning the ship, he could still tell when he was being watched. "Yes, Captain?" he asked, turning his head so he could view him out of the corner of his eye.

"What time will we arrive at Charleston?" Frederick asked, a little ashamed that he had been caught staring. Usually he was more subtle than that.

Schwerin turned to the navigator who had been reading aloud instructions to him. The lad immediately tapped somewhere on his map and replied, "In about two days if this weather keeps up."

Frederick nodded and thanked him, turning back to the sea. It was so blue and endless, dark and calm, and they were the only ones around to see it. The _Prussia _speared through the waves, causing sprays of foam to lap the sides of the ship. The repetition of the water was soothing in its familiarity, and he found himself thinking of the shores of Charleston on one of its mild days. Warm and beautiful, and all of the French inhabitants living there made it a bonus, especially when so many of them were his friends, d'Argens and Maupertuis to name a few.

"You are the spaciest man I've ever seen, you know that?"

The familiar voice instantly brought a smile to his face, and he turned around to see his first mate, Gilbert. It was quite surprising that he had decided to brave the sunlight, since his sensitive skin burned so easily. His broad hat was being used to shield most of his face and his hands were carefully gloved. "Only when there is nothing to do," Frederick replied, smiling and turning back to the sea. He waited, feeling his smile growing wider by the second.

A few seconds later Gilbert was beside him, just like he knew he would be. The pale man leaned his elbows on the railing, crimson eyes watching him. "Why are you out here then, if there's nothing to do?" he said, his voice barely above a murmur.

"Because there is nothing to do inside either," Frederick said. He heard a snort and couldn't hold back a small chuckle himself.

"Don't give me that crap. What about that whole crate of books that nearly broke my back when I had to carry them aboard? Your flute? I can count on one hand the number of days this ship has gone by without a single note played." As he was speaking he leaned closer to his captain until their faces were nearly touching. Their hats bumped a little and Frederick heard a sleepy peep as the chick that resided in Gilbert's hat was awoken. "Get out of this unawesome sun. You certainly don't want to burn that lovely skin of yours."

In earlier times Frederick would have been uneasy at how close they were, especially since they were right on the deck, but he knew by now that none of the crew would say anything. In fact the relationship between the captain and the first mate had been the subject of rumor and gossip for a long time before either of them found out about it. It was something that the crew simply _knew, _even before Gilbert had once decided to confirm it by kissing him in front of literally everyone. The crew had taken it remarkably well, and aside from a few jokes made by Winterfeldt and Seydlitz Frederick barely heard a word about it.

Now he could all but see the ears stretching as everyone on the decks tried to listen while desperately trying to look as if they were doing something important. They never seemed to learn that the two of them were masters at holding a private conversation. "You," Frederick said, loading that one word with as much accusation as he could, "are just trying to lure me into my quarters, alone."

At that Gilbert grinned one of his infamous grins. "Yes I am," he said without the slightest hint of shame. ""Now come on before I have to carry you there like a bride."

"Twenty lashes if you do," Frederick replied without missing a beat.

Gilbert looked hurt. "What? Gods, you overreact so much!" Actually he looked a little sick.

Frederick rolled his eyes and patted the man's arm comfortingly. "Oh hush. While there are a few things that I will let you do in front of the crew, publicly humiliating me and making me look like a joke is not one of them." He said his words in the most reassuring manner, letting Gilbert know that he bore no ill will towards him.

Gilbert pouted a little. "Hmph. You're no fun at all," he murmured.

"No, you just have a warped sense of what fun is."

"Yeah right. My fun is awesome."

"Sometimes," Frederick agreed, trying not to smile. He noticed that he still had his hand on Gilbert's arm, and probably everyone on the entire deck saw it as well, but for once he couldn't bring himself to care. Let them stare, the bloody rumormongers. They stared at the ocean for a long minute until Gilbert, who couldn't keep his mouth shut for very long unless the need was dire, poked him in the side.

"So," the pale man started, grinning in a rather predatory manner. "Your cabin?"

Frederick rolled his eyes. "No. The captain is not allowed to keep his quarters to himself."

Every time he quoted the codes to Gilbert he always replied with a scoff, and this time was no different. "You won't be by yourself, you'll be with me," Gilbert said.

"No. Maybe later tonight, but not right now."

Gilbert chuckled. "Why, we don't have to do_ that, _but I won't turn down that offer. You can just play away on your flute or hell, quote that damn philosophy at me, as long as you get out of the sun." He reached out and pushed Frederick's hat lower down his head and his hand was waved away irritably.

"Stop that," Frederick said and pushed his hat back up. "It's very flattering, but you worry far too much."

"Says the man who nearly fainted in the middle of the street because he wouldn't listen to what anyone said about the heat and gave his hands a most magnificent sunburn."

The captain froze at those words, then turned and very slowly fixed Gilbert with a deliberate stare. "We will not talk about that," he said slowly. "Ever."

Gilbert tried to make a nonchalant shrug. "Suit yourself, but do you want to spend another week complaining about how you can't write or play your flute?"

At that Frederick paused for a good handful of seconds. "You don't give up, do you?" he asked finally.

Knowing that he had won at last, Gilbert smiled. "Nope, glad you learned that by now."

Before either of them could even move or begin to make their way below, there was a commotion on the main deck. A moment later a voice rang out, "Sorry to interrupt your alone time Captain, but there's a ship up ahead!" It belonged to the second lieutenant, a bold young man by the name of Seydlitz. He was the only man on the ship besides Gilbert who could get away with talking to the captain like that, but then again the crew of the _Prussia _ran more on loyalty than regulations so speech was a lot freer.

Instead of reprimanding the officer like any other captain would have done, Frederick just gave him an amiable smile and said in the kindest, warmest voice that he could muster: "Go to hell Seydlitz." Those within hearing range laughed and even Seydlitz, who was coming up the steps, smiled. He was followed closely by the first lieutenant, Zieten, and the bosun, Winterfeldt. "What type of ship is it?" Frederick asked the moment they were assembled.

"Definitely a schooner," Zieten said immediately. Out of all of them he looked the most like a stereotypical pirate, with a curved scar running around his right eye and temple.

"Merchant?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Perfect. Hoist the colors, whatever flag matches theirs, and keep a steady approach. Ready the guns!" His voice raised to a shout on the last order and everyone scrambled to their posts. In an instant more sails started to unfurl and catch the wind and a flag, ironically French, made its way up the mast.

"What, no real colors?" Gilbert asked as he followed close behind Frederick. They came to stand by the wheel, where Schwerin was steering them into a course that could use the wind to their advantage. "Whatever happened to the Gentleman Pirate who hoisted his true colors beforehand to give his prey a fair warning?"

Frederick pulled out his spyglass with a snap and held it up to his eye. "He is feeling a bit mischievous today, and wants to play a trick," he replied. "Steady, Schwerin."

Gilbert laughed. "Tsk, tsk. Shame on you, breaking your own code."

"It's not a code, just a habit." Frederick said with a grin that matched Gilbert's. "Come on, if you're good then I'll let you lead the boarding party."

**Temper**

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Gilbert had to ask as the two of them made their way to the stables where their horses were waiting. It wasn't that he was unsure if his general could take care of himself, far from it, but his behavior was really starting to freak him out.

"Yes Gilbert, I am sure," Zieten nearly spat out, causing him to jump a little. "I ask that you not question my resolve." He hurried his pace even more, which was the fastest Gilbert had ever seen anyone walk without actually running. For a little guy Zieten could move pretty damn fast when he wanted to.

He stretched his own legs in order to keep up with Zieten's ground-eating strides. "I would never question your resolve, General," he said carefully. "But I was just wondering if you know the consequences that might befall you because of this."

The hussar was silent for a moment, then he sighed loudly. Gilbert wondered how he still had the breath to do so. "Yes I have. I have considered the matter for quite a long time." The whickering of horses grew louder and they turned the corner to see a soldier holding the reins of both of their horses. "However my answer remains the same." He took the reins of his horse without so much as looking at the handler.

The soldier's eyes grew huge as he heard the last snatch of their conversation. "General, you can't do this!" he protested. "This is just foolishness! You can't—" The words stopped dead on his lips when turned and Zieten gave him such a _glare _that he was instantly cowed. Good lord, he had never seen anyone but the king do that! What stunning, unforeseen fires lay beneath the ever-calm and warm General Zieten!

Zieten launched himself into the saddle of his horse with little trouble and waited for Gilbert to do the same. When he had firmly seated himself he took the reins of his horse in his hands and set off at a brisk trot. Gilbert followed him, unease still prickling inside of his gut. For the most part Zieten seemed calm, but he could tell by his clenched hands and hardened jaw that he was anything but. Together they rode through the camp, for the most part avoiding any company, until they were setting off down the road with only two sentries being aware of that they left at all.

It was a lovely day out in the countryside. The sun had only been up for an hour and a fine mist was rising from the grass, blurring the landscape like the fragments of a fading dream. The only living creatures that were around were the birds, which flitted from tree to tree and cried out warning calls as they approached. It might have seemed that he and Zieten might have been the only humans (well, one human technically) for miles around if they didn't know better.

At length, Zieten turned to him and said, "You know you didn't have to come, Gilbert." The hussar general was one of the few men who didn't seem to mind calling him by his human name

"Don't be ridiculous, of course I did," Gilbert replied. "I couldn't just stand by and let one of the most competent generals in the army, and a dear friend no less, ride off into danger." As if to agree with him, Gilbird cheeped from his hat.

He saw a hint of color rise to the general's cheeks, just barely visible in the light. "Well, I thank you then. I know this isn't really your business and I don't want you to feel like that you've been dragged along."

The nation smiled good-naturedly. "Actually Zieten, it is my business. You are both my people." He wondered whether or not to voice his greatest concern, but then again he knew that Zieten would understand. "I hope you don't plan to seriously injure him." Honor or not, he knew that he would personally restrain the both of them if things went too far.

Zieten's eyes widened. "Oh heavens no!" he exclaimed. "I'll certainly knock some manners into that damn foolish skull of his, but nothing more than a little blood drawing. Teach him to respect his superiors." All at once normal Zieten was gone and angry Zieten was back. Again the change was more than a little disconcerting. "The absolute nerve of him! I'm very patient and can take a lot of stress, as you know, but this something that I won't take silently!" His voice rose with every word until it became a hardened shout that would have any soldier automatically snapping to attention. Even the birds fell silent.

Gilbert found himself edging away from Zieten. The man may have been unimposing with his small and slender build, but there was something undeniably fierce about him when his anger was up. Not to mention that seeing Zieten honest-to-gods angry—since he was usually in complete control of himself—was like seeing Fritz in love with a woman; it just didn't really happen. He was glad that he wasn't the one who was dueling the general, for he was certain that the experience would not be very pleasant. He wanted to know what the poor bastard they were about to meet had done in order to piss off Zieten this badly, but he was pretty sure that Zieten wouldn't want to tell. Nonetheless he had to try. "So what did the man actually do?"

He heard a grumble and saw the man twist the reins in his hand. Zieten was deliberately avoiding his eye, keeping his own gaze fixed on the road ahead. The seconds ticked away and the silence grew. Gilbert knew better than to continually prod him for answers like he or Fritz would do to each other, so he waited. "It was a personal insult," Zieten said at last. "If it had been directed at my hussars or my regiment I wouldn't have minded so much, lord knows that I've heard plenty of that in my lifetime, but it was intended for me. We had all been drinking, when this rude bugger asked rather loudly how such a small man with a voice like a castrato ever got into the good graces of the King. Made sure to say it while I was in the room too."

Gilbert snorted and Zieten gave him an odd look. "I hope you knocked his goddamned teeth out," the albino said after a moment.

Zieten scoffed, the color again rising to his cheeks and an irritated scowl scrunching up his face. "Believe me, I tried, but my good officers were able to prevent a major brawl from taking place right in the middle of the pub. However I proposed a duel and that's why we're here now."

This time Gilbert laughed outright and some of the nearest birds flew off in fright. "Well I certainly can't blame you for undergoing this trip. I just hope it won't take too long, Fritz would be most unhappy if any of his plans were to be delayed because of our absence."

"I don't intend for it to be that long," Zieten replied, pointing a clump of trees that had grown in such a way that it formed a small clearing on the side of the road. "That is our spot."

Prussia nodded and dismounted so he could lead his horse over a comfortable spot. "Hey Zieten," he said when the general did the same. He got a questioning look as a response. "Kick his ass, alright?"

For a moment Zieten was quiet and no doubt a little confused, but then he grinned. It was a fierce grin that made Gilbert rather proud, since it made the man look a bit savage. "I will," the hussar promised before turning away and going to his spot.

**Fortune**

_Click._

Frederick ran his finger along the rim of the box, toying with the tiny gap between the two halves that were pressed together. He traced the line, across the tiny hinges and all the way to the latch on the opposite side. He paused for a moment, resting the tip of his finger on the little lock, before flipping it open with a flick of his nail. The lid of the box popped up to reveal the treasure nestled inside. Under most circumstances the objects inside the box would have aroused feelings of horror and perhaps a bit of disgust inside him, but now they were more precious to the king than gold. A handful of pills, all of them small and white. They were quite innocent in their appearance, but it was also quite deceptive; the contents of his box were enough to kill him five times over, or that was what he had been assured. Opium was supposed to be quite painless and it would have been like falling asleep, except he wouldn't wake up from that deadly sleep.

_Click._

The lid snapped shut again, pulling a veil of metal and jewels over the little pieces of death that were in his palm. Like an old horse plodding the same beaten track, his finger felt along the jewels and designs embedded into the metal, absently drawings designs until it inevitably found the latch again. His dull blue eyes stared at it for a long moment, expression unreadable, until his finger flicked the latch again and opened the lid. The pills were still there, silent and unobtrusive. They reminded him of little fingers, eager to reach out and pull him under the earth, never to rise again.

_Click._

It was a sharp sound, like a mother slapping the hand of her wayward child. It was a stark denial of what would happen, what the future could possibly entail if he walked down that final path. Every time he heard that snap his thoughts were jerked from their morbid wanderings, back into the present day.

Despite the positive aspect of the sound, it was a source of great irritation to the other occupant of the room.

"Will you stop that?" Prussia finally snapped as the lid clicked shut again. It had been steadily wearing on his nerves for ten minutes now and he couldn't take it anymore.

Frederick started and glanced up at him as if he had forgotten that the albino was there. He blinked a few times as if to collect himself. "Why? Does it bother you?" he finally asked. His usual sharp tone had left him, leaving his voice earnest and simple.

However, Prussia was having none of it. "Yes it fucking bothers me!" he said shortly. "Just—stop _toying _with it, it's making me sick." He really did look a little ill and his eyes were pointedly averted from Frederick and his possession. Fritz knew that the nation could barely stand to even look at the pillbox, as if its very existence was a thorn twisting around his soul.

The king was silent, still carefully observing his prize as if it might suddenly spit out an answer to his problems. Preferably one that didn't involve swallowing those pills. After a moment he sighed and compliantly slipped it back underneath his shirt, feeling the cool metal rest above his heart. The idea that a silent weapon lay so close to him, able to make that steady beat cease forever, sent a thrill through him. He was not afraid, he had lost his fear of death a long time ago, but more cautious, he supposed. Like a wary animal very carefully venturing forth from its hiding spot, unsure of whether or not a predator was waiting to pounce. "Just a precaution," he murmured to himself.

Nonetheless Prussia heard it. He let out a groan and passed his hand over his eyes, rubbing them tiredly. "_Please _don't give me that again," he said, sounding very old and very weary. "I'm serious, if I have to hear that speech again I'll… I don't even know. I'll do something."

"Something awesome, I would hope," Fritz replied, his voice so flat and desolate and devoid of its usual banter that Prussia felt his throat tighten.

"Yeah," he managed to force out through the lump in his throat. "It'll be awesome… But would be even more awesome was if you threw that box away, or burnt it or something."

"Not while it could still have some use," Frederick replied mildly, sensing the stormclouds approaching.

"Some use?" Gilbert repeated incredulously. "You're treating it as if it's some sort of tool, like one of the shovels we use to dig our trenches! You're talking about killing yourself for heaven's sake!"

And here they went again. He would have made a remark on the irony of Gilbert's statement, of killing himself and heaven, but he wasn't in the mood for even that. "But it is, isn't it? It's a tool for my death, if the situation calls for it."

Prussia flinched as if he had just been hit. "Stop talking like that!" he nearly yelled, finally turning to him and fixing him with a burning gaze that was angry, tortured, and utterly helpless all at the same time. "There's still hope, so you can just forget about those stupid pills."

"Are you trying to convince me, or you?" Frederick asked quietly. He tried not to meet Gilbert's eyes, for they sent a wave of pain right into his soul. He knew that if they were defeated and all hopes of survival totally crushed, then he would end his own life before he could see his precious kingdom fall. His resolve on this was firm, but every time he saw that look on Prussia's face he felt that resolve start to crumble.

"I'm not trying to convince you of anything," Gilbert said, his voice harsh from the lump still in his throat. "I'm _telling _you. Not all is lost and even if it were I would not let you take those."

"I don't need your permission to," Fritz answered. "It's my choice, and I will not give my enemies the satisfaction of seeing me kneel before them, and I will _not _be forced to hand you over to them. I will end my life before I give them anything they want."

"And what, with you gone everything is just going to magically get better?" Gilbert snapped, fisting his hands against the arms of his chair. "Do you know what's going to happen if you die, Fritz? Everything will fall apart, that's what! You are the one holding this damn army together; the men love you Fritz, and when you die so will their will to fight. The whole goddamn country will collapse because even you know your idiot nephew can't hold it together and there goes Prussia! I never told you what happens to a country that's conquered, did I? They partition it, which means ripping it apart, kinda the same way you quarter someone with horses. You know, East Prussia is annexed and Russia comes along and hacks off my arm and takes it away. Austria wants Silesia back, nice piece of leg and flesh there." He traced a line along his thigh, hip, and part of his stomach.

Fritz looked away, sickened by what Prussia was implying. Did they literally come by and slice off a piece of you, like the local butcher cutting a side of beef? He wanted to block his ears from Gilbert's words, but they kept coming.

"What, can't take it? Don't just think of what will happen to my people and lands, think of what'll happen to me. Did you ever think of that? How do you think _I _would feel if you died, leaving me to face them by myself?" His voice was rising and he had to make an effort to calm himself.

No, he didn't think. He didn't want to think, lest he change his mind. "Gilbert, don't make this any more difficult than it has to be—" he started to say before the country cut him off.

"I'm not doing anything, just pointing out the facts that you seem to be willing to ignore! How do you think I would feel if my lover killed himself and left me to die? Oh don't give me that look, that is exactly what'll happen, I'll die and so will you which makes your goddamn 'noble' sacrifice absolutely fucking pointless!" Gilbert was shouting again, unable to help himself. He leaped to his feet, but stayed rooted to the spot, looking down upon his king. "But we can still fight, we can beat them. They have weaknesses, all of our enemies do, but we just need time to exploit them. We just need—" for a moment he choked, as if he knew how utterly hopeless his words sounded "—more time."

Frederick realized that he should have never shown Gilbert the box in the first place. Ever since he learned of its existence Frederick had heard nothing but endless grief and arguments from his nation, and he was always repeating himself. "We don't _have _any time," he said for what felt like the thousandth time in months. "I'm doing this for your sake, Gilbert! If I'm gone then maybe—"

"We're stronger with you than without you, Fritz!" Prussia interrupted yet again, his voice trembling. "Why can't you realize that? Can't you see that we need you, that I need you here?" All of the energy that had been powering him earlier seemed to have run out, and he simply stared at Fritz, his eyes haunted and tortured. Then, as Fritz watched, a large tear rolled out of each scarlet eye and down the pale man's face. Evidently Gilbert noticed it as well, for his lip twisted in disgust and he turned his back to him, scrubbing his face almost angrily. "No, I won't cry for you. You're so goddamned set on killing yourself and I'm not going to waste my tears now, not when they just make me look like a fool."

His tears, his voice, his simple acceptance and defeated attitude brought Fritz to his feet as well. He could bear a lot of things in the world, but for some reason seeing Gilbert cry, the man who he had always regarded as invincible and unconquerable, hit him in his core the same way the deaths of his mother and sister had. Gilbert was not supposed to cry, it was something profoundly wrong and alien to the monarch, and he could not bear to see it. Frederick reached out and grabbed Gilbert's sleeve and pulled the man closer to him. "Please stop crying, you know I hate that," he whispered, fumbling around in his pocket for his handkerchief. He reached up and gently patted the wet marks from Gilbert's face, when the albino gave a choked sob and simply fell against him. Fritz barely had time to catch him before his weight sent them crashing back into the chair he had just been sitting in. At first he thought that Gilbert was injured, but he noticed that Gilbert was crawling into his lap and clutching him as if he were afraid that Death had already come to take him. "Gilbert?" he asked.

The only response he heard were the continuous sobs that Gilbert was breathing into his shoulder. "Don't leave me," he gasped out, pressing his face into Fritz's uniform. "Please don't leave, you have no idea, you don't know. I-I couldn't take it, please don't leave me alone—" he shuddered and broke off his words as he began to cry in earnest, hugging his beloved king closer the way a drowning man clung to a piece of driftwood.

If this were anyone else in the world, Fritz would have pushed them away and told them to stop with their nonsense immediately. But Gilbert was different, his crying brought out a more tender and gentle side that not even the king's friends would have thought existed. Slowly Fritz returned the embrace and stroked his lover's hair soothingly. "Hush, shhh," he murmured softly, ignoring the desperate fingers that were yanking at his uniform and the tears that were no doubt staining it. "Hush, _liebling, _it's alright, I'm right here. I'm right here." Gilbert continued to cry against him, releasing what had to be years of frustration and fear and grief onto his king, who bore it without a complaint and kept up his stream of comforting assurances. Prussia was completely lost in his own private world of grief, one that he had kept hidden for who-knows how long, and the idea of losing the man who meant the whole world to him was bringing that world to the surface. Normally his pathetic sobs would have repulsed him, but he was hurting so _much_ that he couldn't control himself.

It seemed as if they stayed like that for hours, and honestly Fritz wasn't keeping track with the time, but eventually Gilbert became quieter, and over the minutes his gasping sobs became little hitches in his breath. He shuddered all over, like a frightened animal, and still grasped Fritz's uniform tightly between his fingers. Frederick was still running his fingers through his hair, rubbing his scalp in a way that he knew would calm him down, while his free hand ran up and down his back and drew gentle circles along his shoulders.

It wasn't until Prussia had gone completely quiet that Fritz dared to pull away a little so he could turn his head to face him. His hands still stroked and petted, not once breaking their repetition. "I'm sorry," he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple. It was really the only thing he could say.

Gilbert gave a little shudder, but he couldn't tell if that was a response or not. One of the hands clutching him loosened, and started to fumble around the neckline of his shirt. "Take it off," Gilbert said, turning his head so he could see what he was doing.

For a moment Fritz was utterly confused, and he was about to push Gilbert's hand away when he realized that Gilbert was reaching for his necklace.

"I can't stand looking at it," Prussia said before could even draw a breath to argue. "I can't stand knowing that you keep it so close to you, and any second you can just open it and t-take them." He jerked it out of his shirt and they both stared at it, watching the light glint off of its jewels and polished hide. It really was quite a pretty box, all things considered. Gilbert grasped it tightly and would have yanked it off if Fritz had not caught his wrist. "Fritz, _please—" _he begged, another shudder rippling through him.

"Don't break it," Fritz said gently, prying his fingers from it. He bit his lip in thought. "Oh fine, I'll take it off for tonight. It's Christmas Eve after all, and none of us have any reason to do anything morbid now." He could feel Gilbert's eyes on him as he slipped the necklace off over his head and set it down on the table next to the chair. "And I don't want you touching it. It's going to stay there, out of reach." He tried to punctuate his sentence with a hard stare, but it failed rather miserably.

But Gilbert merely nodded and relaxed, again slumping into Fritz's arms. His mumbled "Thank you" was nearly lost in the folds of Fritz's jacket.

Fritz sighed. "You're welcome," he said and brushed away a wet tear track with his thumb. "You're a proper mess, you know that?"

A strangled laugh came out of Gilbert's throat, shocking its owner as much as it did Fritz. "Well it's your fault," Gilbert shot back, dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve.

Fritz gave a disapproving frown. "Don't use your sleeve for pity's sake, here," he said and handed him his forgotten handkerchief.

Prussia would have smirked at that, if he had been in a better mood. "I'm serious, you know," he said after he spent a long moment drying his face. "Something could still happen. For all you know our fortune is about to change for the better."

Fritz let out another sigh. "I have no idea how you can be such an optimist," he replied. Despite his words his hand started to run through his hair again.

"Well not everyone can be all Mr. Doom and Gloom like you," Gilbert replied, leaning into the touch. "Someone has to be positive, or else this place will be like a funeral."

And Gilbert wasn't an overly positive person to begin with. It was an odd little change. "Perhaps you're right," Frederick said, although he was saying that to please Gilbert, and they both knew it. "There just might be a silver lining waiting for us after all." They were silent after that, taking whatever comfort they could in the fact that no matter what had happened so far, they still had each other; although for how long was questionable.

The date was December 24, 1762.

**Identity**

Red eyes. That had always been his most telling feature, the red eyes. Not a very bright red either, more like a dark crimson that was as riveting as it was chilling. He loved them, because no one else in the world had eyes like his. They were solely his, and when one would think of red eyes they would immediately think _Gilbert _or _Prussia._ But now…

Staring at himself in the mirror, and seeing those eyes stare right back, he didn't know who the hell he was staring at.

Almost mechanically, he reached up and pinched a lock of white hair between his fingers. His other defining feature had been his white hair, just as unnatural as his red eyes. He twirled it a little, letting the greasy and sweaty strands run through his fingers. When he took his hand away he saw a few clumps of pale hair sticking to it. He wiped his hand on a towel and turned back to the mirror. He knew that hollow face in the glass was his, but he could not recognize it. It wasn't the same.

As the Deutsche Demokratische Republik his face would have been thin, but nowhere near as thin as it was now. His lips would have been thin and twisted into an almost permanent grimace, and his eyes would have had a sort of hardened anger that glared out at the world.

The Free State of Prussia would have still been in somewhat good health. His cheeks would have color and his eyes would have been bright, but when no one was looking there would be a shadow over him, as if he knew of what was to come. He would have still been strong though, centuries of lean muscle still built underneath his deceiving uniform.

The Kingdom of Prussia had been his golden years. Strong, healthy, practically glowing from his wealth and power, one would have looked upon him with admiration. His head would have been held high and his eyes challenging, glinting with life. He would have been a key part of some sort of group or confederation, and not some sort of shadow that hung in the background so he would disturb anyone. He would have still been important.

He had still been young during his Duchy years, so he had looked more like an older teenager than a grown man. Nonetheless he had still been as stiff and proud as ever, because he still had a sense of purpose to his life. He remembered smiling a lot in those days (a concept that was completely foreign to him now) and laughing and joking, filled with the happy innocence of someone who believed that nothing bad could ever happen to him.

And then the Teutonic Knights, when he had been a boy and some off his teen ears as well. His wild time, filled with conquering and crusading. He had been so full of energy, galloping across the world to bring his Order to the pagan lands. He had been such a child then, but gods, he remembered being happy. Those days had all been one blur of happiness after the other… right after the insanity had gone, of course. Back then his eyes had been like freshly spilled blood, sharp and wicked and piercing to the soul. The eyes themselves could have been alive, "a demon's eyes," as a peasant had told him once.

But now…

Thinking back to all of those times, remembering his face as he looked into a mirror, a blade, a pond, the polished surface of a shield… he couldn't find himself anywhere in the face that he saw now. Not even Deutsche Demokratische Republik was there; it was as if the moment he and West were unified he became a completely different person. Not that he was much of one to start with, but some sort of cosmological fuckup had stopped him from dying when he should have all those years ago. Not now though, oh no. Gilbert may have had no idea who he was staring at, but he knew a dead man when he saw one. Hollow face, skin so pale that he could see the blue veins underneath, nearly all of his flesh wasted away until he could clearly see the bones of his face and hands. That's all he was now, skin and bones. Not a thing you would call a country.

Not only did he look like he was dying, he felt like he was dying. He no longer existed as a country, DDR was no more, and his people… they were gone too. They all belonged to West now, and he felt so useless and _empty, _like one of those plastic cups you threw out of the window of your car that would sit on the side of the road for weeks until the rain knocked it into a ditch forever. He leaned forward a little, gripping the edges of the sink, trying in vain to catch some sort of answer behind the stranger's eyes. What? That was the question. What would he do now? What was going to happen to him? What was the world thinking as they trained their eyes on Germany? What in world was he now?

It pained him that he had not a single answer to any of those questions.

His knees were trembling. Not from fear or anxiety, but exhaustion. He had been standing up for far too long. It was absolutely ridiculous, growing tired because he had been _standing up. _He gritted his teeth and tried to straighten up, and even that pained him. His body was failing him, it had no reason to keep itself alive, not when its purpose was gone. This wasn't _right, _it wasn't _fair. _He balled his fist on the counter, shaking from the exertion of doing just that. He had been the awesome Kingdom of Prussia, and he couldn't even get out of bed to look at himself in a mirror?

Had been. That was the key word.

His fist connected with the mirror before he even knew it was happening. The sharp crack that filled the whole room brought him to his senses, and he was quite surprised to find his fist pressed against the mirror and thousands of spiderwebbed cracks stretching out from around it. He hadn't even felt it touch the glass, nor had he seen it move. After a few seconds of staring at the broken mirror in some sort of stupefied shock, a sharp pain in his fingers made him hiss and reflexively jerk away. He looked down to see his knuckles sliced open and shards of glass jutting out of his skin. Blood, startlingly bright and red against his pale skin, welled up around the base of each fragment and gently oozed into the cracks between his fingers and down the back of his hand, creating little red trails where they went. He stared at them in an odd sort of fascination, transfixed by the calmness of it all. He would have expected blood to start gushing out like a damn fountain, but this was like a deep underground spring rising to the surface. He held his hand up to his face and watched the trickles of blood mark their paths down his arm.

It reminded him of tears. Tears of blood, his body crying out as all of its vestiges of life were stripped away one by one. He moved slowly, as if underwater, and swept his finger across one of those scarlet trails. Curious, he lifted it to his mouth and tasted. Immediately he grimaced; his blood tasted _wrong_, unlike any of the other times he had tasted it before, like it was diseased. He spat it into the sink and looked back down at his bloody hand. His blood was starting to drip onto the floor, making a soft pattering noise that was completely maddening in its softness. The death of someone as awesome as himself should make a noise that the whole world would hear, not this gentle sound that even he had to strain to notice. Again he drew his hand into a fist, uncaring of how much it hurt, and looked back into the shattered mirror.

A hundred pairs of unknown red eyes met his own.

He gasped and leaped back, hitting the wall as he did. The eyes seemed shocked too, but gods, who did they belong to? They were too dull and lifeless to be his own, yet they stared at him from the shell of a face that housed the spirit of a broken nation. Did those eyes belong to DDR? Prussia? The Teutonic Knights? He didn't know, Old Fritz help him he didn't _know. _He couldn't even tell who he was anymore.

He slid down the wall, mercifully out of sight from those eyes, and sat curled up on the floor. He held his injured hand close to himself, feeling the warmth soak into his shirt, and wondered just what in the world he was now.

**Folklore**

"Gilbert?"

"…."

"Gilbert?"

"Mmrgh."

"Gilbert?"

"Mmmph, _was? _Wait, Fritz? What are you doing still up?"

The boy jumped a little from Gilbert's suddenly harsh tone, grasping his hands behind his back nervously. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, staring at his feet guiltily.

Dammit, too much cuteness too soon. Prussia sighed and sat up a little on his elbow. "Don't be," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. He wondered what time it was. Certainly late, since Fritz needed a candle to find his way to the nation's room, but it couldn't have been terribly late or else the boy would not have been awake at all. "Just make sure your father doesn't catch you like this. What wrong?"

Fritz swallowed, scuffing his foot against the carpet. For a second he glanced at the candle on the nightstand as if it would betray him, but then his eyes returned to Gilbert's face. "I—" he started, then paused as if nervous to go on.

Gilbert tried not to let his irritation show. "Come on Fritz, I haven't got all night. What's bothering you?"

The child bit his lip. "I-I couldn't sleep," he admitted at last.

"Obviously," Prussia said. Fritz winced a little and the nation gave himself a mental boot in the ass for being callous. "Well, what do you want me to do about it?"

Fritz twiddled his thumbs a little, the very picture of uncertainty. "Will you… tell me a story?" he asked finally.

At first Gilbert couldn't comprehend his words. He stared at the boy as if he had just spoken in fluent Russian. "What?"

"A story," Fritz repeated. "Wilhelmine tells me stories sometimes, and I always fall asleep when she does."

"Then why don't you go to her?"

"She's asleep."

Oh of course. If Prussia had been in a more sour mood then he would have pointed out that he had also been asleep, but that adorable puppy look the prince was giving him worked wonders. "Please Gilbert," Fritz said after a moment, his lip trembling a little.

Inside the confines of his mind, Gilbert swore colorfully in Old Prussian. "Alright, fine," he grumbled, "but _one _story and that's i—oomf!" The breath was driven out of him as a small six-year old crashed into his side like a cannonball.

"Thank you Gilbert!" Fritz squeaked, at once smiling and all of his previous sadness and pathetic eyes gone. Why that sneaky little—"I'll be good, promise!"

"Doubt that," Gilbert said, feeling the child snuggle up to his chest. "Gods you're freezing, didn't you put on something warmer?" He gently tugged the blanket over the young prince's shoulders and slipped his arm around his body, pulling him closer.

"Nope," Fritz replied shamelessly, snuggling his head under Gilbert's chin in a way that sent warm fuzzies into the kingdom's stomach.

Prussia grunted and pinched him on the cheek, sending the boy into giggles. "Alright, what do you want to hear?"

Fritz shrugged in answer. "Whatever you want to tell," he said.

"Don't give me that, what do you want?"

Another shrug. "Something I haven't heard before. Wilhelmine likes to tell me stories about princesses, but I don't want to hear another one of those."

"Good kid," he murmured, tickling Fritz behind the ear. The boy probably fell asleep from boredom every time Wilhelmine told him a story. "Alright, I'll tell you one about…" he wracked his brains for a moment, trying to think of some fairytale that wouldn't scare him shitless. "Ah, I know: 'The Straw, the Coal, and Bean'."

"…What?" Fritz titled his head up to look at him in puzzlement. "Like an actual straw, coal, and bean?"

"Yes actual ones! What other kinds are there?" He saw Fritz scowl and pinched his cheek again. "Hey, no scowling. Do that when your dad's around." His jibe worked and immediately the prince smiled again. "Alright, it goes like this. 'In a village dwelt a poor woman, and—"

"Aren't you going to say 'once upon a time'?" Fritz asked innocently.

He tried not to smack his face. He knew this had been a bad idea. "_Once upon a time,_" he started again, stressing the words dramatically, "there was this poor woman who dwelt in a village. However she—what?"

Fritz had tapped him softly. "Where did she live?"

"In a village, I just said it."

"Where's the village?"

"That's not important. It was just a village."

"But it's more believable if the village has a name!"

Head, meet headboard. Gilbert really wanted to smack himself against it right now, but he restrained himself. "Berlin," he said. "One of those villages outside the city, take your pick. Now stop interrupting." He took a breath and tried to remember where he left off. "She was poor, but she had gathered a pot of beans together to cook. She made a fire in the hearth, and so that it would burn more quickly she lit it using a handful of straw. Now when she was pouring the beans into the pot to cook, one fell out without her observing it and landed on the ground next to a piece of straw. Soon afterwards a coal leaped out of the fire and fell between the two.' Oh what _now?" _

Fritz cringed a little, but asked in a small voice, "How does a coal leap? It doesn't have legs."

Gilbert felt a twinge of pity for Wilhelmine. If she had to go through this all the time… "They can jump. You've seen them fall out of the fire."

"But how do they do it?" Fritz persisted.

"I don't know, they just do." Fritz tapped him again. "What, Fritz?"

"How come the straw didn't burn when the coal landed next to it?"

"Because it was awesome."

"Wha—"

"Shush!" Gilbert cut him off. "Just listen, alright? Dammit now you made me forget where I was."

"The coal jumped out of the fire and—"

"Yeah, yeah, the coal. Anyways, when the coal jumped out and landed between them the straw said: 'Dear friends, where did you come from?' Yes Fritz, it talks. Ah-ah, no questions! They just talk, alright? They're awesome like that. The coal replied: 'I sprang out of the fire, and if I had not escaped by sheer force then my death would have been certain. I would have been burnt to ashes.' The bean also said: 'I too have escaped with a whole skin, but if the old woman had gotten me into the pot I would have been made into a broth without any mercy, like my brothers.'"

"You can't make a broth from beans!" Fritz piped up as Prussia was drawing a breath. The nation swore and thumped his head into the pillows. "What's that word mean?" Fritz asked curiously.

"Ahhh, nothing you need to know until you're older," Gilbert quickly replied. "And yes, you can make a broth from beans. I know a lot more about this than you do and I know you can."

Fritz nodded. "But wait, so whenever we start fires and cook beans we're, _killing _them?" he said, his voice rising a little.

"Yeah, whatever. Burnin' them to a crisp and all. You want to hear the rest of the story or not?"

Fritz nodded again. "What about the straw?"

"I'll get to that! The straw then replied: 'And no better fate would have befallen my lot. The old woman has destroyed all of my family in fire and smoke; she seized sixty of them at once and took their lives. I was lucky enough to slip through her fingers.' You alright there Fritz? You look kinda pale… Alright, if you say so.

"Well now they found themselves in a bit of a pinch. 'What are we going to do now?' asked the coal.

" 'I think,' answered the bean, 'that since we have all managed to escape death, we should stay together, lest the woman tries to take us again. I say we all go away together, to some foreign country.'

"The other two liked the idea, and soon they set off. However, they soon came to a little brook and—Fritz I swear to gods if you interrupt me one more time—"

"I'm sorry!" The boy squeaked. "But how did they get out of the house?"

Actually, that was a pretty good question. "Because they were awesome," Prussia replied, his failsafe answer to anything. "Now if you interrupt me again I'm putting you out." Instantly Fritz went still. "Good. They came to a brook, and since there was no bridge they were pretty much screwed in trying to get over it. But the straw got an idea and said: 'I will lay myself across the stream, and then you can walk over me like a bridge.' How the hell that was supposed to happen since a straw is really kind of thin and breakable I don't know. But the straw then stretched itself from one bank to the other, and the coal jumped right on top and started to walk across. But when the coal reached the middle of the bridge and heard the water rushing below, it stopped, because it was afraid of water, naturally. However, it hesitated for too long and burnt right through the straw, and the both of them fell into the brook. Now the bean had stayed on the bank, because it wasn't a complete dumbass in trusting a _straw_ bridge, and thought the whole thing was hilarious, so it started to laugh. It laughed so hard that it burst, and I mean literally exploded, and probably would have also died if a tailor hadn't been walking by. He saw the whole thing happen, and apparently he had a thing about sewing up beans, because he immediately took out his needle and thread and sewed the bean back together. Dunno why he did that, since all he did was waste some good thread. Dammit now what you've done, now I'm second guessing myself. Anyways, since the tailor used black thread, all of the beans after that had a black mark on them. And I guess the bean lived happily ever after or some crap like that."

The room was silent for a long moment after the rather unceremonious end to the story. Gilbert scowled and poked Fritz irritably. "You're not asleep," he said flatly.

"I'm sorry, but it was such a silly story!" Fritz replied, stifling a giggle. "Talking beans and straw bridges. But not all beans have black on them, so why would you say that they do? And when we eat those black beans are we eating thread as well? What made all the beans after that have a black mark on them? That would be like saying if someone spilled paint on themselves and all of their children had a mark of color on the same spot. If I were there I would have—Gilbert are you alright?"

Gilbert sighed and hit his head into the pillow again. "Just go to sleep Fritz," he said into the fabric, completely out of ideas.

"Alright," Fritz mumbled and snuggled closer. "Can I stay in here? Your bed is really warm."

"Go ahead," Gilbert answered, feeling the kid curl up against him. "Just don't kick me in your sleep or anything."

Fritz shook his head. "I won't," he promised, stealing a little corner of the pillow for himself. Again Gilbert's arm came around him, but his hand also started to stroke the back of his neck, which lulled the child to sleep faster than any story ever had.

**Night**

To Frederick, the night always had a special sort of charm to it. Something about the silence and the soft-footed steps that you had to make when travelling in the dark made everything seem very secretive, and he had always had a weak spot for secrets. The night always let him cast off the veil he had to wear during the day and he could be himself. As a child he used to sneak candles into his room so he could later read by their light, and sometimes he would hide in his closet and carefully practice the fingerings on his flute, without playing it obviously. Because all of the noisy happenings of the day had been left far behind, he was left to muse alone with his thoughts, which was something that always pleased him.

The night was also good for stargazing. Even now that was what he was doing, sitting on his bed with the sheets tangled around his waist and watching the stars pensively. He mapped out the constellations with his eyes, naming each in his head and the stories behind them. The moon shone through the window, bathing him in a cold light that bleached everything of almost all color. There was hardly any sound at all except for the steady breathing coming from the person behind him, sprawled across half of the bed and, for the moment, asleep. The king smirked as he thought about him.

Oh yes, the night had many advantages indeed.

His chin rest on his hand and he stared at the night sky absently. A starry view of the heavens always made him thoughtful, and his current thoughts were dwelling on the past. The Silesian Wars, how they had changed both king and country. They had come out of those wars as different people, but all things considered it wasn't a bad change. It had brought them together after all, and that was a decision that Frederick knew that he would never regret in his life. He had wanted his nation for such a long time, and he finally had him. His smirk turned into a fond smile as his memories went down a sweeter path.

As if his mere thoughts were enough to rouse him, he heard Gilbert shift a little. There was a bit of rustling as the sheets moved and then an arm curled around his neck. "What are you doing sitting like this?" Gilbert's sleepy voice murmured into his ear as his warm chest pressed against Frederick's back.

Frederick tilted his head so Gilbert could rest his chin on his shoulder. "Just thinking," he said, tracing along Gilbert's arm with his finger. He was so pale that his skin fairly glowed in the moonlight.

"About what?" Gilbert asked.

He shrugged slightly. "The past, things that happened. Mainly Aix-la-Chapelle and its aftermaths." He felt Gilbert laugh against his back and couldn't suppress a smile of his own.

"Can't blame ya," Gilbert said, his voice heavy with amusement. "Best two weeks of my life." Lips touched his shoulder and he flinched involuntarily. Gilbert immediately pulled back and then paused. "Oh I see," he said a moment later. "I did that, didn't I?" The nation licked his finger and drew it down Fritz's back, following one of the many scratch marks that crossed it.

Fritz shivered at the touch. "Quite so," he said, feeling the rest of his back sting. "You have such sharp nails. You should keep them trimmed."

"Now why would I do that?" Prussia asked, now running his fingers up Fritz's abused back. "You make so many delicious noises when I scratch you. As far as I'm concerned these nails can grow as long as they want."

The king sighed but did not argue, because that would mean that he would deny that he liked it. "Elizabeth will wonder about them," he said after a long minute of silence, although it was unclear who he was talking to.

Gilbert laughed heartily, as if he had just heard a joke. "Don't tell me you actually let that woman see you naked," he replied.

"Not really," Fritz admitted, "not as much as before."

"What, it happened at all?"

"Well when you have an old bastard like my father hanging over your head every day demanding that you produce an heir you pretty much have to do what you have to do." He shrugged again, his mood becoming more melancholy. "Poor girl, she can never be happy with her life."

Gilbert paused, mulling the words over in his head. "You're sorry for her?" he asked curiously. "I thought you hated her."

"No, I don't. I don't love her, but I don't hate her. I rather pity her, to tell the truth."

"Why?"

He hesitated for a moment, wondering where Gilbert's sudden interest had come from. But it wouldn't really hurt to tell him, he supposed. "She's a sweet person," he admitted as if he were confessing a crime. "True, she's plain and has a bland education and she makes me want to run my head into a wall sometimes, but her personality is most agreeable. She hardly does a thing without thinking about how it could please me in some way, and even though she knows that there can hardly even be friendship among us she still tries."

"Then why don't you divorce her?" Prussia questioned, sounding honestly confused about why it hadn't happened already.

Fritz made a noise and looked almost personally offended by the idea. "That would be cruel," he said as if that was all the reason he needed. "She doesn't have much of a place to go, and to turn her out would be heartless after all I've already done."

Gilbert played with a lock of his hair, drawing over his hand and admiring it now that it was free of the powder. "You sound guilty," he said.

"I wouldn't go as far as that," Fritz said, reaching up to stroke Gilbert's face. "Like I said, I feel a bit sorry for her. She did nothing to deserve this life, but now she's stuck with it. I do wish that there was some way that I could make her happy without loving her, but the problems in life never have an easy solution." He was silent after that, but it was one of his "thinking" silences, as Gilbert liked to call them. His king was deciding on whether or not to go on. "I did try to love her at first," Fritz mumbled out in a rush. He turned his head away as if ashamed with himself, but Gilbert kissed his cheek and brought it back towards him with his free hand. "But I simply could not."

"Was she that bad?" Gilbert asked, moving his lips to his lover's neck.

"Ah! N-No, but I was already quite in love with a certain someone else at the time." He felt Prussia's grin against his skin, causing another shiver to go through him. "And I found out that I simply could not make myself love her, not even as an act. I couldn't love her any more than I could eat a stone or breathe water." He sighed, partly from his own frustration and the fact that Gilbert was starting to work wonders on his neck. "I'm not making any sense, am I?"

Gilbert shrugged. "Sort of, but then again I'm not paying that much attention." He bit down lightly and pressed himself against Fritz once more. "I don't have to worry about her taking you away from me, and that's all that matters." He ran his fingers down Frederick's side, making sure that his nails touched him ever so slightly.

A laughed finally rumbled through Fritz. "Oh, you never need to worry about that with anyone," he promised, turning his head around so he could kiss him.

Prussia moaned approvingly and swept his hands back up to the broad shoulders. He frowned and pulled away. "Lord, you're freezing!" he exclaimed. "How long have you been up? Never matter, come back down here, I can't have my King catching a cold now, can I?"

He let himself be pushed back down onto the bed. "Of course not," he said, running his fingers through Gilbert's hair as the man threw a blanket over the both of them. "There's work to do. And I might get you sick as well!" He gave his hair a playful tug to punctuate his words.

"Hah, I'm too awesome to get sick," Prussia crooned to him, kissing his jaw. Then he started to make his way down, past his neck, biting a nipple as he passed his chest, and even further down. "Don't worry Fritz, the Awesome Me will have you warmed up within five minutes, tops." He paused to give him a wink before sliding even further under the covers.

* * *

><p><strong>White Day:<strong>**Sooo, here's another odd little pairing that I like. Himapapa one said something about how Japan and Prussia were "practically inseparable" and Japan calls Gilbert "Prussia-kun," which is a title of respect. My thoughts were basically "Well, other pairings have been made out of a lot less info than that XD"  
><strong>**Apparently in Japan there is this holiday called White Day, which is like a sister holiday to Valentine's Day. It's like a reply of sorts, and takes place exactly on month after Valentine's Day (March 14th) and anyone who received gifts or chocolate on Valentines gets to pay their love back with gifts of their own. Usually the gifts are white chocolate, jewelry, or lingerie D As a rule the return gifts are supposed to be about three times worth of what you were given on Valentine's. If a gift (or chocolate) is handmade then it's all the more special.  
><strong>**I immediately saw this as a Prussia/Japan prompt, because it is a Japanese thing after all. I think this pairing works rather well actually, but I have no idea where the sweet puppy love at the beginning came from. Apparently my headcanon has this pairing alternating between fluff and horribly perverted stuff.  
><strong>**Yes, Kiku was indeed drawing porn in his book. It included Fritz XD**

**Anxiety: ****Hello there Katte. I'm glad you FINALLY decided to show up. Only took ya forever to do it.  
><strong>**Here we see Prussia is being his usual nosy, prodding self XD I think that Fritz has a thing about admitting his feelings to people, mainly because he was such a loner and that almost always led to trouble with his father so he learned to hide his feelings in order escape the cane (sometimes) and the humiliation of it all. Of course this led to problems such as him never being able to tell someone that he liked them, which is where Prussia comes in. Yes, my headcanon Prussia played matchmaker for the both of them XD  
><strong>**I dunno where this rhetorical and wise Prussia came from, but I kind of like him. Funnily enough he never has been in love before, but he's probably seen enough lovestruck teenagers in his lifetime to know what usually works. (Not to mention he's friends with Francis and he always uses the most direct approach possible)**

**Prison:****Ohhh boy, little angst fest going on here ^_^ Making this prompt about Kustrin seemed a bit too easy for me, so I wanted to make a metaphorical prison as well as a real one. Not only is Fritz actually in a cell, but he's also a prisoner to his own grief, fear, indecision, and the duties he has to do as a prince. Prussia, similarly, wants to do what's best for Fritz and help him out as much as possible, but it is ultimately Frederick William who commands him so he is a prisoner to his own fear of Fritz hating him and obeying his king.  
><strong>**I also wanted to show that not everything in Fritz and Prussia's relationship was rainbows and sparkly unicorns of love. They had a few bumps and rocky parts of the road just like everyone else. Mainly this stemmed from Katte's execution, which a sore spot for the both of them, but for different reasons.  
><strong>**And I am insinuating throughout this entire prompt that **_**Prussia**_** was actually the one who executed Katte? Yes. I. Am**

**Heart: Oh how I loved writing this one. Just to clarify, Gilbert literally has no idea what is going on with him. You see, in "Anxiety" I pointed out that he has never been in love before, so he has no idea how it feels. And he wouldn't read any of that "sappy and unawesome" stuff that people write about love all the time, so he has never heard of it described in any way so he is very, very clueless. Fritz actually knew that he was in love, Prussia doesn't XD It was so funny and amusing to write all of his speculating down too.**

**Pirate: I...I have no words, just PIRATES! XDDD Originally I was going to have the BFT as pirates and Fritz would have been on a ship they attacked and taken prisoner, but then my mind came up with the brilliant idea of making Fritz a pirate, that way I could write his generals as well. (Seriously, his generals were all sorts of awesome too.) So I made this sort of AU verse that not even I quite know how to explain, it's part fantasy and part reality. And why are they near Charleston and so far away from Europe? Cause I live near Charleston and I wanted it that way dammit XDDD  
><strong>**Sorry if I have any horrible inaccuracies in this story. I know a little bit about ships, but I'm am certainly in no way an expert XD If I plan to continue this little odd arc (I'm not sure yet) I definitely want to read up a little. I kinda want to raid my dad's bookshelf now, he has tons of stuff on it.**

**Temper: Okay, at first I was going to take the easy way out an make it about Frederick William, but it was a bit too easy and stereotypical. Then all of a sudden I wanted to put General Hans Joachim von Zieten in a story, because he has to be my favorite of Fritz's generals (I love all of the others as well, but Zieten definitely gets me to fangirl squee more than any of them xD)  
><strong>**My idea came from Zieten's temper, obviously XD He was a shortie, even for those times. He was barely 1.6m tall, or 5' 3", and he had a light voice to boot, and when he was first in the Prussian army his comrades constantly made fun of him for it so he developed into an angry little dude. XDD However he was arrested (twice) for dueling (even though he technically didn't start them) and nearly kicked out of the army for it. So he learned to control his temper later on, but I heard from somewhere that he was in 70-something duels during his lifetime, so I had to wonder where all the rest came from XD Zieten usually took insults in stride and was very calm and polite to everyone he knew, but you did not mock his height. If you made fun of his height, you weren't just pushing his Berserk Button, you were roundhouse kicking it Chuck Norris style.  
><strong>**One of the things about Zieten that fascinates me is that he would stand up to Fritz, an even talk back to him on some occasions. The best part is that Fritz totally let him get away with it XD Something tells me that Zieten and Gilbert would have really gotten along well.**

**Fortune: Alright, another huge guilty pleasure of mine, H/C fanfics. They're just, gaaah I love them ^^ However this one was a bit saddening to write, because I had to write Prussia in such a vulnerable and pathetic state. But then again it's pretty justified, seeing as how the one person he loved was getting ready to kill himself. (Fritz really did carry a box of opium pills around his neck at all times)  
><strong>**If you don't know the significance of December 25, 1762, then you should. It was the day that Elizabeth, Empress of Russia, died. Not only was Russia the most powerful of Frederick's enemies, but Elizabeth also hated him and pretty much wanted to destroy his power in Europe. Peter III, her successor, was a complete Fritz fanboy and he immediately turned Russia into Prussia's ally and released all Prussian prisoners of war and gave back all of the conquered Prussian lands. Peter didn't last very long obviously, but he basically pulled Fritz's ass out of the fire long enough for him to gain another foothold in the war and save Prussia.  
><strong>**Funny little story: I was listening to Led Zepplin as I wrote this story. When I got to the part where they were arguing over Fritz killing himself "Babe I'm Gonna Leave You" came on, and then when Prussia started crying the calm and sweet "Stairway to Heaven" started playing. My music is awesome XD**

**Identity: Well, considering that after the DDR was dissolved Prussia had literally nothing to hold onto anymore. But arrrgh I hate it when I ramble in my stories, if parts of it don't make sense then I'm really sorry, since I have a roundabout and vague way of trying to get my point across to people -_-;  
><strong>**Yes, Prussia really is dying in this story. **

**Folklore: Phew, gotta take a break from all that angst! I've wanted to write chibi!Fritz for a while and oh gawds he is SO CUTE. I want to hug him ;w; The Grimm tales had to appear in this story of course, it's only proper XD Actually I have the Grimm stories on my phone, and one day I was reading them and I came across the bean story, and I laughed my ass off because I thought it was so adorably ridiculous. Just about all of Fritz's questions in the story were my own thoughts as I read it.  
><strong>**I don't know why, but little!Fritz just struck me as the type of kid who would not shut up when you were telling a story and had to ask questions and pick apart every little thing in the story. I feel sorry for poor Prussia XD  
><strong>**This actually very loosely based off of a Germancest story I read a long time ago on here, called "Four Oh Two." I still believe that it's one of the funniest things I have ever read on this site. Ever.**

**Night: Okaaay so I tend to disagree with most of the population about how Fritz felt about his wife. Most everyone portrays him as hated her guts, and while I will be the first to admit that he was rather cruel to her at times, I don't believe that he hated her. Fritz himself once said "I pity this person, for she will be one more unhappy princess in the world." So he basically knew that she was getting a crap deal. He didn't go out of his way to hurt her though, and in fact his behavior towards her was very polite and on some occasions even affectionate. For example, when he was still a prince and he was campaigning with Prince Eugene of Savoy, Elizabeth's father died. Fritz wrote a letter personally asking his father if he could be allowed to take a break from the fighting in order to go comfort her (and this is Frederick William we're talking about here people)**

**And I just noticed that my next two prompts are quite dirty in their topic. XD I'm gonna have to write smut, aren't I?**

…

**FUCK. (lolpunintended)**


	13. Happy Birthday Fritz!

**A/N: Oh how I wish I was in Potsdam at this moment, celebrating Fritz's 300th brithday with the Germans ^_^ Germans, Y U NO CELEBRATE CLOSER?  
><strong>

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><p>"I told you I didn't want this."<p>

"You act as if I actually had a hand in the matter." Prussia casually plopped his elbow on Fritz's shoulder, enjoying his height advantage. "This was all Wilhelmine's idea." He nearly tripped as Fritz shoved him off.

"Typical," Frederick replied, sipping his drink to clear his countenance. He wasn't fond of having his birthday celebrated—honestly, what was the point?—and had told Gilbert multiple times that he did not want a party. Leave it to the kingdom to find some sort of loophole in that statement. "Why did she do this? She of all people should know that I hate parties centered around myself." He didn't mind regular masquerades and balls, since they were not very important anyway, but one such as these had all of the attention focused solely on him, forcing him to keep up a constant mask.

Gilbert leaned against the wall, far more relaxed than his ruler was. He gulped his wine. "Lay off a little, Fritz. She's just trying to make you happy."

"No guilt tripping," Fritz murmured over the rim of his own glass. He heard Gilbert laugh.

Suddenly one of the women from the crowd detached herself from the rest and made her way toward them. People greeted her as she passed and she bowed her head politely in return. "It's not a good impression to sulk at your own party Frederick," Wilhelmine said once she was beside them.

He scowled at his older sister, which only amused her. "I am _not _sulking," he said.

Wilhelmine smiled patiently and Gilbert laughed. "Oh he is, don't let him trick you," the albino said, again leaning his elbow on Fritz. He had to duck away as Fritz swatted at him.

"Stop it, both of you," Wilhelmine chided them, placing herself between them. "Gilbert, stop teasing him, Frederick, at least smile. Everyone will feel bad for going through all of this work and not being able to make the King happy."

Fritz shook his head. "Ah, dearest sister, but I am happy, see?" He smiled, bright and warm and cheerful. But his eyes were bitter and sarcastic, clearly labeling his words as a joke. "You see, everyone just looks at the face, and they ignore what lies behind the eyes. If I went up to someone looking like this, they would wish me well and never ask what was _really _wrong with me. Shallow as rain puddles, all of them."

Wilhelmine frowned a little at his misanthropic statement. "You can't possibly think that of everyone," she protested. "Most of the time you don't even bother to—" she stopped as a pair approached them. It was the Saxon ambassador, along with some baron whose name she couldn't remember. They came to congratulate the King and pay their respects before inevitably vanishing back into the crowd.

Frederick glared at their backs as they retreated. "And that's why I hate this. Everyone is always _congratulating _me. Hooray, I managed to survive another year of living, big deal." Now a grimace was etched into his features. He finished the rest of his wine in one gulp and set the empty glass on a nearby table. "I'm going outside. Come on, Gilbert."

"Not very subtle Frederick," Wilhelmine said, disapproval written all over her face.

Fritz gave her a charming smile that didn't reach anywhere near his eyes. "I have a headache," he said slowly. "I want some fresh air. It's Gilbert's job to protect me, so he has to accompany me." He gave her wink. "Be back in a few minutes." Then he turned and left, somehow slipping through the crowds and out the door like a phantom. Gilbert laughed again, shrugged at the irritated princess, and followed him.

The only person they saw when they were travelling down the hall was a servant carrying a load of towels. She bowed to them as they passed and then scurried away. "Finally," Fritz sighed in relief as they came to the main doors. He grabbed a scarf from the nearby rack and wrapped it around himself before going outside.

A blast of cold air greeted them. "I thought you hated the cold," Prussia remarked as they started to walk along the palace, keeping close to the walls so the wind couldn't come at them from all sides.

"Ah, the annoying crowds of the masses or nature's freezing wrath. A cruel choice indeed!" Frederick said dramatically, drawing his coat closer around himself.

Gilbert smiled and scanned the surrounding area. "Damn. If there was snow on the ground then I would ask if you wanted to build a snowman."

A sly smile twisted the monarch's lips. "Not that little trick again," he said, glancing into the windows as they passed by. Not a single soul in sight.

"But it was such an awesome trick, and it had so many rewards." Gilbert's voice was low and smooth and his hand trailed down Fritz's spine to rest against the small of his back. "Didn't it?"

"Yes, it did," Fritz agreed, for once not pulling away from the touch. Public place or not, they were still alone so it didn't matter. He allowed himself to be pulled closer and that hand to slip around his side, resting just above his hip. Pressed so close against his country, Fritz noticed that he was shivering a little. He looked up and noticed in dismay that was still wearing his court clothes that Fritz had spent nearly an hour talking him into wearing. While they made him look incredibly attractive, they were quite poor in providing warmth from the cold. "You silly thing," he said, his tone affectionate despite his words. "Didn't you think of grabbing a coat?"

"Not really," Gilbert said, trying to hide his shivering behind a smile.

It didn't work. Fritz clicked his tongue at him and started to take off his scarf. "Here," he said, wrapping it around Gilbert's bare neck. "Where's your cravat?"

"I took it off." Gilbert replied, grinning at Fritz's long-suffering sigh. "What? They're so stuffy and tight." He pulled the scarf more snugly around himself, and then frowned. "Hey wait a minute, now you're going to get cold."

"No I won't," Fritz said, trying to turn his collar up to cover his neck.

"Yes you will! Take it back, I'm fine." He started to unwrap the clothing only the have Fritz slap his hands away and put it back on.

"Stop that! I gave it to you for a reason, just take it!"

For a moment they struggled, each insisting that the other wear the scarf. It ended when Gilbert managed to pull away nearly half the length of the scarf and wrap it around Fritz. "There, now we both have it," he said, beaming proudly. They had to stand quite close together in order for it to cover them both comfortably, but it worked.

Frederick plucked at it. "This looks ridiculous," he said, although he made no move to change it.

"I think it's kind of cute actually," Gilbert said. He reached out and tucked it more securely around his king's neck.

As he worked, a stream of music drifted through the air, marking the beginning of a new song. Fritz smiled and stepped closer to Gilbert so he didn't have to talk so loud. "Well, it makes it easier for my purposes. Come, dance with me."

Gilbert blinked in confusion. "What?" he asked.

A chuckle left his lips. "If you will notice, I have you all to myself," he said softly, watching Gilbert grin at the familiar words. "The windows of the palace don't face this way, and everyone is at the party anyways." He took one of Gilbert's hands in his own and slid his free hand down his back, mirroring what Gilbert had done to him earlier. "Now shut up and dance with me." He sealed his statement with a kiss.

"As you wish," Gilbert murmured and nipped him on the lip before straightening up. After a moment of listening, they both began a slow allemande that eventually built up until they were twirling around the confines of space that they had. "Dancing," Gilbert scoffed as they moved. He rolled his eyes. "If I didn't know any better I'd call you a sissy aristocrat."

"Well, I am an aristocrat," Fritz said, squeezing the hand in his own. "And you are a liar. You told me that you couldn't dance." He gave a pointed look at Gilbert's shoes.

Prussia rolled his eyes again. "I hate dancing. I told you that so I could escape it."

"But you're so good at it," Frederick protested. "Better than my wife, that's for certain."

Gilbert tried not to laugh. "I don't like it though," he repeated. "At least, not any vertical dancing." If his words weren't enough of an innuendo, the way he leaned closer and breathed the words into his king's ear was.

"Mmm," Fritz said, his eyes sliding half closed. "Both have their advantages."

"Which do you prefer?" Gilbert wondered, drawing his thumb across the back of Fritz's hand.

Frederick pretended to think hard about the answer. "Well," he said slowly, turning his head so that his lips brushed against Gilbert's jaw, "that would depend entirely on how skilled my partner is." Gilbert tilted his head down and quickly captured him in a kiss before he could pull away, and their movements came to a slow halt. Somewhere in the background the music ended, but that wasn't important anymore.

When they pulled apart Prussia gave him a rare, heartfelt smile. "Happy Birthday," he said. Although another year tacked onto his beloved's life hurt him in more ways than he could imagine, he still had a small measure of happiness left somewhere inside of him.

He heard a groan and Fritz plopped his head onto his shoulder. "Not you too." His king's hands hugged him around the waist and pulled him closer. "Why can't we celebrate something that actually matters? What about your birthday? The Kingdom of Prussia has withstood another year against his enemies, that's important."

Gilbert laughed quietly, rather touched by the idea. "Well, you're a little late for that," he said, playing with one of Fritz's many curls.

"What do you mean by that?" Fritz asked suspiciously. "Did your birthday already pass by?"

"Mhmm," Prussia hummed. "It was on the 18th."

Frederick paused for a moment as the information sunk in. Then he stepped back so he could look Gilbert in the eye. "You mean to tell me that your birthday was less than a week ago?" he demanded. "Why didn't you say anything to me?"

An amused smile stretched across his face. "Because you would have tried to celebrate it in some way," he replied, pulling Fritz back to him. "And, _mein Schatz, _I hate parties that are thrown for me."

Fritz's fist connected with his chest, but it wasn't intended to hurt him, just show his King's frustration. "You _hypocrite," _Fritz hissed out. "You dirty little—" a kiss cut him off, no doubt Prussia copying what he himself did on many occasions.

"None of that now," Gilbert said playfully. "No complaining, not when I still have to give you your awesome birthday present later."

The implications of that statement were blindingly obvious. Frederick felt his temper cool almost immediately. "Shame on me," he said, letting his hands dip lower, to the base of his spine. "Since I didn't know your birthday, I never got you a gift. How regretful." He grinned.

"You can make up for it," Gilbert told him with a positively lewd smirk. "I'll give you your gift, then you can give me mine."

Fritz's thumbs rubbed along the curve of his back, eliciting a small shiver from him. "I will be waiting eagerly," he said. "But can't I have a peek now?" He would have hit someone if they called his expression "coy," but that's exactly what it was at the moment.

Gilbert chuckled softly and leaned closer. "You're worse than a child sometimes," he said, but kissed him anyway. It was nothing more than a simple press of the lips, incredibly gentle in contrast to the kisses from before. Fritz made an appreciative noise and dipped his fingers lower, stroking over Gilbert's hips to encourage him. Despite the peace of their surroundings and the wonderful state of bliss he was currently in, a small part of his mind sarcastically noted that this would usually be the time when they were interrupted.

The world did not disappoint him. Not two seconds after he thought that he heard a click and one of the side doors that the servants used to do their work swung open. Thankfully the door swung towards them so whoever was behind it couldn't see them. "For God's sake, Lotti, stop dropping it!" A woman's voice yelled as there was a thump and a small cloud of dust rose from behind the door. "I wouldn't trust you to serve the guests their tea, that's for certain."

They both leaped apart as if shocked. Immediately Fritz turned and ran, heading for one of the paths that went to the gardens. But he had forgotten all about the scarf, and it jerked him into a choking halt as if he had been a dog tugging on its leash. The force of it also yanked Gilbert off balance and sent him tumbling into his king and they both ended up tripping over each other and falling into one of the many shrubs that lined the path.

"Hey, did you hear that?"

He tried to get to his feet, but branches caught in his clothes and he found himself stuck. He fought against the confines of the plants and only managed to get his arms free. A hand suddenly grasped his collar and dragged him out of the bushes right as a head poked itself around the door. "Oi! Who's out there?" a woman yelled as they fell behind the bushes.

Fritz thumped his head against the grass. "Oh great good gods, just kill me now," he muttered hopelessly, his face flushing in embarrassment.

"Get up," Prussia said, smothering a chuckle. "They haven't seen us yet." He managed to pull Fritz to his feet, almost picking him up as he did, and dragged him along by the wrist. They ducked around a corner, jumped over a stone bench, and slipped through a narrow gap in the hedges. It was one of the very same alcoves that Prussia had hidden in a few Christmases ago and threw snowballs at whomever had passed by, and now they both crouched in it, hidden by the cleverly cut branches and leaves around the entrance. "Here we go," the albino said, pressing his king closer to him. Because of the winter months the hedges had not been trimmed very recently, and their overgrowth made the space unusually tight and cramped.

Frederick shook his head and sighed. "Wilhelmine's going to kill us," he murmured. They had already been gone for an embarrassingly long time.

"Well we can't go anywhere with that crazy maid yelling like that." Prussia replied, jerking his thumb in the direction of the voice that was now calling them out as vandals.

"She's a _maid," _Fritz said with a roll of his eyes. "That's hardly a valid excuse."

"Still sticking to it," Gilbert said. He frowned as Fritz tried to get up and quickly wrapped his legs around him and jerked him back down. The force of it made him lose his balance and hit the ground on his back, but he didn't care. "Nope, you're staying right here."

Even in the dim light he could tell that Fritz was blushing. "Not here!" he said, gripping his shirt warningly.

Gilbert's look was full of innocence. "What? We're just laying here." He wriggled his body under Fritz's, as if trying to get comfortable, and barely stifled a laugh as Fritz's breath hitched. "But if you want sex we can probably manage pretty well in here. Kind of cramped though, so no crazy positions—"

A hand slapped over his mouth. "Hush!" Fritz whispered, listening to the footsteps drawing closer to their hiding place. He barely held in a gasp when Gilbert opened his mouth and started to suck on his fingers. He went to jerk his hand away but Gilbert caught his wrist in a firm grip. Red eyes gazed at him challengingly. _If you move then I'll yell, _the soldier mouthed at him.

Goosebumps prickled his neck. _You wouldn't dare, _Fritz mouthed back. Being caught in a position like this could end only in a complete disaster, and Gilbert knew that.

Nonetheless Prussia smirked at him, a "try me" smirk. He guided Fritz's hand back to his mouth and carefully slid it back in, licking up and down each finger as they entered. He kept his eyes on Frederick the entire time, holding his gaze with his own. Frederick bit his lip to stop himself from making any noise, but a shiver passed through his entire body. He felt Gilbert pressing a finger against his lips in a shushing gesture, and a surge of anger swept over him at Gilbert's game. Without really thinking he bit his finger, delighting in the gasp that caught in Gilbert's throat. His victory barely lasted a second, because Gilbert bit him back, dragging his teeth down his skin and swirling his tongue around each digit softly. Dear lord if only Gilbert would do that to something _else _of his...

Fritz buried his face into Gilbert's clothes—admitting defeat—so that if he accidently made any noise then it would be muffled. "I hate you Gilbert," he whispered (no, it was _not _a whimper.) "I hate you, I hate you." He repeated the phrase over and over, feeling his face heat and his heart race. God this wasn't fair, this wasn't fair at all.

Gilbert's chest heaved in a silent laugh. He slid Frederick's fingers out of his mouth with an appealing wet noise that shot straight down Fritz's spine. "No you don't," he replied in a voice that was barely above a whisper. He paused as the footsteps of the maid swished right by their hiding place without a single pause. When they were gone he smiled slyly. "Well, that was fun," he said calmly.

He rolled his eyes and wiped his hand against Gilbert's clothes. "You're unbelievable," he muttered and sat up. Thankfully Gilbert didn't seem intent on holding him there anymore.

"And you're as red as a beet," Prussia replied, skimming a finger down his cheek. "Liked it?"

Of course he did. His heart was still pounding like mad and it was suddenly unbearably hot and his clothes were quite uncomfortable and tight. He sighed and rubbed his temple right over the spot where a headache was started to form. He needed a drink. "I'm going back," he announced, prying Gilbert's legs off of him.

"Oh, don't be like that," Gilbert said, sitting up with him. He brushed at his clothes. "Besides, I've got grass stains on my clothes. What will Wilhelmine think when she sees them?"

"And I have leaves in my hair," Fritz replied, plucking them out as he spoke. "I know _exactly _what she will think."

Prussia barked out a laugh. "Gods, and for once her assumptions will be wrong," he said, imagining the princess's face when they would meet her and no doubt the deep blush that would color her face when she would see them.

"Not completely," Fritz said, still shivering from the ministrations he had received. Merciful heaven that mouth of Gilbert's was practically a sin. He quickly stepped out of their hiding place to distract his thoughts, taking the scarf that was still around his neck and tugging it, prompting Gilbert to his feet as well. The coast was clear, and they stepped back onto the path that ran around the palace, the same one they had been walking and dancing on before they had been interrupted. Gilbert tried his best to put his clothes into a somewhat neat manner, wincing as his hands passed over the stains, while Fritz tried to rid his hair of the foliage while keeping his curls intact. Thankfully no one had come to look for them during their prolonged absence, and the only person they passed on their way back was Winterfeldt. The general was sitting on a bench smoking his pipe, and he looked up when they drew near. At first the man looked rather bewildered, his eyes landing on the scarf shared between them, and then he noticed the rest of their appearance.

Fritz had to force down a laugh when he saw his friend's face redden, but he was mercifully spared having to think of an explanation as Winterfeldt just bit down on his pipe and remained tactfully silent. However, his raised eyebrows and the questioning look that was thrown his way told him that he would definitely have to be explaining a few things later.

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><p><strong>AN: Yaaaay Happy Birthday Fritz~! :D**

**You know, originally this was a lot shorter. There was some dancing, scarf sharing, then some talking that was all fluffy and sweet and cute. Then Mr. Slash Monster and was all "Lemme write something, pleeeaaaase?" And because I have a little weakness for slash I decided to start writing and then it turned into running from a maid and hiding in the bushes and….this. XD I'm sorry, I can't seem to help myself XDD But I liked it, if anything because Prussia being such a bastard and teasing him like that makes me laugh.**

**This was inspired mainly by two pics, on DA. "Warmest Time of the Year" by kuroneko3132 and "Join me in the Dance" by dieingcity. I love them to death because they're awesome XDD**


	14. Restraint - Adrenaline

**A/N: So only eight stories this time, shoot me XDDD But I hope the topics will be enough to make up for it. No Valentine's Day fluff cause I'm a troll like that.**

**BE WARNED: Lemons. Possibly bad/suckish (pun intended) lemons because it's my first time. If you don't like lemons then just skip Restraint and read on.**

**I've finally had to up the rating for this story. I feel oddly accomplished now ;w;**

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><p><strong>Restraint<strong>

"Untie me this instant."

Gilbert smirked as he listened to the imperious command, sitting back so he could look down upon the eyes that were glaring up at him. For once they had no effect. "Calm down Fritz," he said playfully. "We haven't even started yet." He chuckled outright as Fritz jerked against his bonds and they held tight. "I didn't know that you were that excited~ I wouldn't waste all of your energy though, I tied them pretty good."

Fritz sighed in irritation. "Enough," he said, ignoring Gilbert's advice and pulling against the ropes that held him. He couldn't believe that he had been so oblivious that he hadn't noticed Gilbert tying him to the bed until he woke up to see Gilbert binding his wrists together. This was the _last _time he was falling asleep before him.

To his annoyance, Gilbert looked amused by his reaction. "Don't be like that," he said, reaching out and running his fingers along the ropes that held his wrists together and wrapped around the bedposts. "I didn't go through all of the trouble of getting this and then trying not to wake you up just for you to say no. But don't worry, _schaztchen, _I'll get you to like this."

He opened his mouth to argue but Prussia quickly leaned down and bit his neck, turning his words into a sharp gasp. "None of that," the nation said, pressing a quick kiss against the mark that would soon form. "You're stuck here and you aren't going anywhere until I decide to let you go."

"What do you plan to do?" Frederick asked, feeling his gut twist with unease. He tried to ignore the flush that was creeping up his neck.

"Hmmm, I'm not sure yet," Gilbert said, sliding his palms along Frederick's exposed sides, feeling him shiver at the touch. "But I guarantee that you will be screaming my name before we're done." The purr of his voice and the way he punctuated the end of his sentence with a slow lick sent a spear of desire right through Frederick's body, despite all of his objections against it. He was supposed to be hating this! And that was true to an extent, he was rather angered by his helplessness and inability to move, but a part of his mind that was growing louder with each second was crying out for more. The way Gilbert was pressing almost his entire body against him and rubbing his sensitive sides and chest sent delightful tingles racing across his skin. Out of pure habit he tried to pull his leg closer and growled in frustration when it too refused to move. God this was frustrating, not being able to move or touch him back. "Keep moving like that," Gilbert murmured distractedly as he thrashed his entire body in an attempt to get free. "It feels great."

Immediately, Frederick stopped, his cheeks burning. Gilbert smiled and continued as if nothing had happened, kissing his neck and around his collar, running his hands up and down his body. He was being unusually gentle tonight. Most of the time he was rough and demanding, and the sudden change caught the king completely by surprise. As if to directly contradict his thoughts, Gilbert bit down on him and started to suck, _hard. _A moan tore its way out of his throat and he tried to move and put his hands on Gilbert's head to press him closer, but they just twitched uselessly in the ropes, making him groan again. Eventually Gilbert let go with a wet pop and licked his lips, eager for more of those noises that his lover made. He could feel the heart beneath him racing madly, in time with his own. He went to work again, biting that little spot where the neck joined the shoulder and made Frederick twist helplessly under him. "Hold _still _Fritz, honestly," he grumbled out. He grasped him by the hips and used his weight to pin him to the bed.

Fritz bit his lip to stop the noises that were trying to break free. It felt as if his blood was roaring in his veins, and his skin was on fire. He had no idea why the hell he was starting to enjoy this, but heaven help him he was. Gilbert had a way of getting him aroused even when he had no desire to do anything related to sex, and he both hated and loved him for it at the same time. This was a whole different game however, being trussed up and helpless, but the way he was losing control and being at the mercy of someone else was strangely… exciting. He was beginning to get an idea of why Gilbert liked being held down so much. Instead of protesting he was now turning his head to one side so his neck was brazenly displayed. The nation had one a victory already.

And he knew that too. "That's more like it," Prussia said, rewarding him with a gentle nibble along the vein in his neck that sent blood rushing to his dick. "Don't you trust me, _schatzi?" _Gilbert asked playfully, tilting his head to one side

"No," Frederick answered immediately, but the curl of his lips betrayed his words. Now what sort of a question was that? He trusted Gilbert with his life. He knew that his love would never do anything to hurt him.

Prussia laughed against him, knowing his lover's game. He didn't bother to reply and scraped his nails down Frederick's torso, stopping right by his navel and tracing gentle circles into his skin. Frederick arched into the touch, feeling Gilbert's chest press against his own for a brief moment, but then he was pushed back down with firm hands holding him in place. Then they trailed lower, slipping off of him, but he got the message and forced himself to keep still. "See?" Gilbert said as he sat back fully, his hands the only point of contact between them now. "I told you that you would like this." He gave a pointed look at his erection, but other than that he ignored it.

They stayed like that for a few moments, Gilbert's thumbs gently stroking over his hipbones. Fritz could feel Gilbert watching him, those hungry eyes roving over every inch of him like a wolf eyeing a tasty meal. A shiver of anticipation went through him and he strained at the hands. "Gilbert," he murmured, his voice thick with need.

"Yes, love?" Gilbert asked, drawing his fingers away until only the very tips touched him.

The lack of contact was about to drive him mad. "Please—"

"No."

The harsh rebuttal threw him off. "W-What?" he stammered, which was the only coherent word he could think of through the spinning of the room and the blood pounding in his skull.

"Speak to me in German," Gilbert ordered, taking his hands away completely. "German only from this moment on, or else you won't get anything tonight."

He groaned in annoyance. Gilbert had done this to him before, making him speak that vulgar language while they were in bed. "No," he said, trying to wriggle closer and swearing heatedly when Gilbert moved out of his reach. "That's ridiculous! Why should I have to speak German? You can understand me just f—where are you going?" Prussia started to get up. "No wait, stop!" He made a great show of crawling over to the edge of the bed and sliding his feet onto the floor. "Gilbert please, no, no! _Nein!" _

Almost immediately the kingdom paused. "What was that, _schatzi?" _he asked, drawing his feet back up and turning around. The smile on his face was sharp and gloating, but Frederick didn't care.

"_Nein," _the king repeated, twitching his hands again and jerking his hips into the air uselessly. "_Bitte." _

Gilbert started to crawl back over. "Please what?" he asked, reaching out and gently running his fingers along an ankle.

Frederick cried out and nearly choked on his words. Tremors wracked his body and his groans turned into desperate whimpers. Oh God, his ankles were so sensitive, and that teasing touch was driving whatever sanity and protests he had left out through the proverbial window. "_Mehr!" _he managed to gasp out, letting the arch of his body beg for more. "_Bitte Gilbert, mehr!"_

Prussia scooted closer, once again seated himself between Frederick's spread legs. His hands went up, grazing his calves, tickling the back of his knees and then slowly stroking the inside of his thighs. Prussia listened as Fritz's vocalizations became louder and more heated, pleas in German spilling out of his mouth as if he had never spoken any other language in his life. He was fighting down his own shaking, trying not to let Fritz see how affected he was. But that was nigh impossible, a man would have to be dead to not react to all of the soft moans and whimpers that Fritz had made. Was still making. "Fritz," he said, his voice rough and ragged from his own onslaught of lust. He slid back up his body, keeping his hand on his thighs but gently nipping at the rest of him. "Tell me what you want."

He wanted to be untied. But Fritz knew that Gilbert wouldn't do that, it wasn't part of the game after all. He sighed mentally and forced himself to relax and just accept the situation. He cast about his mind frantically, recalling half-forgotten words and grammar lessons that Gilbert had been trying to get him to learn. "_Ich will daß du mich berührst," _he panted out finally, letting all of his raw want seep into his voice.

Prussia chuckled low in his throat, a sensual noise that seemed to reach out and caress him just like his hands had just done. "Good answer," he replied, giving Fritz a trademark smirk before he took one of his nipples in his mouth. He delighted in the gasp that filled the room and started to trace wide circles with the tip of his tongue, carefully avoiding the sensitive bud. One of his hands reached up to play with the other one, mirroring the motions of his tongue and letting his nails tickle his lover _ever _so slightly. He waited until Fritz's breathing became harsher and a pleading "_Gilbert," _reached his ears, and then he bit down and started to suck. A shuddering cry came from Frederick at the sudden sensations and he bucked up again, grinding their bodies together for a moment. Prussia growled and moved to the other nub, licking all the way across his chest and leaving random bites along the way.

Fritz threw his head back and groaned, gnashing his teeth in frustration. His skin felt as if it was about to crawl right off of him and it was so wonderful, he wanted it to go on forever, but at the same time he wanted more. Other parts of his body screamed for the attention that Gilbert didn't seem willing to give. "_Gilbert, bitte, ich brauche dich," _he said, finally giving in and begging. Oh how he wanted to touch him back. This wasn't fair! He heard a laugh and, "Who said this was supposed to be fair?" He didn't realize that he had been speaking out loud.

He twitched involuntarily as Gilbert bit down on his nipple, not enough to make him bleed but more than enough to send a rush of heat coiling in his belly. His member twitched and for a moment he tensed, but it wasn't near enough to make him come. "_Hör auf mich nur scharf zu machen und fick mich endlich_," he snapped out, repeating something that Gilbert had said to him on many occasions. Damn the ropes and the foreplay, he wanted sex, _now._

Gilbert grinned and raised his head, giving the nub one last suck before he did. "Why, but it's such a fun game," he said, inching closer. On an impulse he bent down and licked the hollow of his throat, lapping at the sweat that had gathered there. In a moment he was overwhelmed by the unique scent and taste of his king, which set all of his nerves tingling with excitement. He lingered for a moment, breathing in the heady scent that always came off of him whenever they had sex and made the albino just want to pick his king up and pound him into the headboard until it broke. He couldn't hide his trembling anymore but Fritz seemed too far gone to even notice or really care. Despite his words from earlier, Prussia frowned to himself as he felt the almost spasmodic twitching beneath him and the needy, desperate whimpers coming from his lover. Maybe he had teased him too much.

Or maybe not. He kissed his throat and made his return journey back down, running his hands over every ticklish spot that he knew, stroking and teasing still. He seated himself between Frederick's legs and took his time in adjusting his position, holding off as long as possible so Fritz could get even more hot as he was forced to wait. Gilbert licked his lips and gazed at his prize for a few long moments, then without any warning at all he leaned in and gave his cock a long, hard lick and oh, he loved how Fritz jumped at that, letting out a surprised shout. He threw an arm over Fritz's hips to pin him in place and licked again, slowly dragging his tongue along the underside of his length, following the thick vein pulsing underneath the skin. Fritz gasped even more at that and had to turn his face into his arm so he could muffle his cries. Gilbert then paused for the barest moment, eyes flicking upward, his mouth inches away from the head and his hot breath washing over it. He could feel Fritz tense in anticipation, and he waited for a moment longer before he took the head of his cock in his mouth and started to swirl his tongue around it.

"_Oh Gott, Gilbert, ja," _Fritz moaned, resisting the urge to thrust into that hot, wet mouth. He didn't care that he was now groaning and making all sorts of begging noises, submitting completely, he wanted Gilbert to make him forget everything except what was happening right now. "_Ah! Ja Gilbert…" _he went on, his vocabulary reduced to a mere handful of words.

Gilbert paid him no heed at the moment, although that devastatingly sexy voice was making all of his blood rush into his own arousal, which was aching for attention. He pressed against the bed, rubbing the sheets and trying to keep some semblance of self-control, and took his king deeper into his mouth. He loved the feel of his hot, hard flesh against his tongue and the taste of the precum that leaked out to goad him on. He went deeper, sliding down until he felt the tip of his cock prodding his throat, then he came back up and plunged back down, swirling his tongue everywhere that it could reach and settling into a fast rhythm. He repeated the wild cycle over and over again, licking and sucking and occasionally pumping with his hands until he had Frederick writhing underneath him in ecstasy. Soon he felt the muscles underneath him tense all at once and he immediately backed off, leaving Fritz to whine pitifully as he bucked into the suddenly cold air.

"Gilbert!" Fritz gasped, tears of frustration gathering in his eyes. "_Gilbert_!"

Gilbert rubbed his cheek along his pelvis, mere inches away from his length._"_Tha's m' name," he singsonged, his voice wavering slightly. "Don't wear it out." His words may have been playfully lighthearted, but his expression was deathly serious and he had to mouth down Fritz's pelvis and thighs to keep himself distracted.

A muffled keen slipped out of Frederick and nearly made the nation come on the spot. He was glad that he had sent the servants away, because they were both being unusually loud tonight. "_Nein! Bitte hör nicht auf!" _Fritz said, the raw need in his voice destroying all of his anger. "_Gilbert, ich schwöre bei Gott wenn du aufh__örst, dann werde ich—"_

"You'll what?" Prussia interrupted, giving him a challenging look. The expression was wiped from his face when Fritz turned to look at him and oh gods his eyes were heated. They were always so beautiful, now his dilated pupils had turned them nearly black. For a moment he was completely frozen, then he turned and reached over to the nightstand, fumbling around until he found the bottle that he had placed there earlier. He could feel Fritz's eyes on him as he uncorked it and spread a liberal amount of oil onto his fingers, and the soft smell of almonds became a partner to the other scents in the room. The nation met his king's gaze again and gave him a quick smirk before he slipped two of his fingers inside that awaiting ring of muscle. He felt Fritz clench automatically at the sudden intrusion, but a moment later he relaxed. Gilbert plunged his fingers in deeper, stretching and scissoring the smooth walls, pumping in just the right motions that he knew would soon turn Fritz into a puppet in his hands. He licked the base of his cock right as he added a third finger, although he made sure to carefully avoid that one little spot as he continued to stretch him.

Frederick was less than happy and he pulled his legs uselessly against the ropes as if hoping that they might magically break. There were certain times when he really wanted to hit his lover, but a part of him knew that no matter what, Gilbert would make it all worth his while in the end. He could barely even dredge up his anger now, lost in the blissful sensations that Gilbert's fingers and tongue were wringing from his body. He leaned back and shut his eyes, trying to absorb every single touch and stroke that was building upon that aching _need _for release inside him.

Gilbert noticed Fritz's silence and guessed at what he was trying to do. "Hah, look at this," the albino said, a little breathless himself. Watching his gorgeous little king completely lose himself in his pleasure was one of the most delicious things he had ever seen in his entire life. He balanced himself on an elbow and moved upwards, kissing his way up to Fritz's chest and tasting him with laps of his tongue. "I'm about to make you come using nothing but my fingers," he breathed into his neck, still the motions of his fingers as he did. "How many of your other lovers were this awesome?" It wasn't a question that needed an answer and Gilbert didn't want one. The words barely had time to register in Fritz's head before Gilbert finally pushed his finger in as far as they would go and curled them, rubbing them right over his prostate.

Beneath him, Frederick jumped as if he had been shocked. "_Genau da, ja genau da!" _he cried out, squeezing his muscles and trying to take him in deeper. Yes, yes, _yes _he was finally getting what he wanted! He wished that Gilbert would keep touching that spot forever, but at the same time he was so desperate for some sort of relief that his whole body was shaking. He could barely think through the haze of pleasure and his head lolled to one side, prompting Gilbert to suck on him again and add to the love bites that had already been put there from earlier. "_Ja, ja Gilbert—halt, was machst du?" _He felt Gilbert drawing away from him again, not quite slipping out of him but swirling his fingers in useless motions against his walls.

Gilbert laughed when he heard the frustrated noise rip its way out of Frederick's throat. It might have turned into a scream if he hadn't cut it off with a kiss. He loved teasing Frederick like this, slowly getting him to break down until he was an incoherent hot mess below him. It was a treat, knowing that Fritz would have never in a hundred years let anyone else do this to him; it was Gilbert's privilege, and his alone. He was yanked out of his thoughts by teeth biting into his shoulder and he was suddenly aware of Fritz pressed against him, straining at his bonds in order to get to him. Fritz turned his head and bit down again, right over that special spot where his shoulder met his neck and drove him absolutely wild when it was touched. A jolt of adrenaline pounded through him and went straight to his cock and a primal growl formed in his throat. He should have known that getting too close to Fritz was a bad idea but his could feel his teeth biting right into his skin and the rush of wonderful pain made him forget everything else around him. Again he pushed in his fingers and focused his attention entirely on his prostate, overwhelming Fritz with touches that sent him into mewling convulsions that made him let go and fall back onto the bed, his body arching and twitching with every flick of his fingers.

"_Hör nicht auf,"_ Fritz somehow managed to pant out, burying his face into his arm once more. He pulled at the ropes again. "_Lass mich frei Gilbert, bitte!" _He thrashed as Gilbert curled his digits and sent all three of them stroking down that sweet spot at the same time. "_Lass mich frei!" _he cried out again, seeing black spots in his vision. Something inside of him finally snapped. "_Lass mich frei! Lass mich frei! Lass mich frei! _Lass mich frei!" His voice rose until he was nearly shouting, repeating the words over and over again as if they were the only things he knew how to say.

Gilbert had had enough as well. He drew out of Fritz, ignoring his yell as he did, and once more reached for the nightstand. He knocked the bottle of oil over in his haste to get to his knife; he had planned to cut Fritz loose after they were done, but goddammit he couldn't resist a single thing Fritz said when he screamed at him in that pleading, almost mindless tone that told him that he was about to completely lose it. His fingers clasped around the handle and he brought it up and started cutting, his movements so haphazard that it was pure luck that he didn't slice through Fritz's wrists as well. Almost as soon as they were gone Fritz lunged for him, one hand grasping him by the back of his head and dragging him into a hot, messy kiss while the other scraped down his back and dug it nails into his flesh as if relishing in their solidity. The rest of his body was pulled forcefully down right as Fritz gave another thrust up. He groaned at the friction of their bodies rubbing together and he heard Fritz echoing him and soon they were rutting against each other like two animals, grinding and moaning and touching every part of their bodies they could reach.

It didn't take long before Fritz tensed again and he nearly sobbed in relief as he came apart, orgasm ripping through him as he gave a final thrust upwards. He couldn't even utter Gilbert's name in his joy and gave a wordless cry as he came against him, his hands clutching at Gilbert so tightly that his skin broke. His back arched harshly and he felt a hot gush as he spilled his essence against Gilbert, a few drops landing on himself as well. His thrusting was replaced with erratic tremors and convulsing, and after a few moments he slid away bonelessly, falling back into the sheets in a daze. Gilbert still wasn't quite done yet and reached down to stroke himself, biting into Fritz's shoulder as he added his own moans to the last of his ruler's. After a few hard pumps his body rippled in one long shudder and his vision flashed white. Suddenly the one hand he was using to support himself could no longer hold him and he collapsed ungracefully on top of Frederick, clawing at him like Frederick had done moments before and muffling his groans in his skin.

The sudden that followed seemed contrarily loud, the only sounds present being the frantic panting of both of them as they tried to regain some form of coherency. A minute or so passed and Gilbert was the first to raise his head. He could still feel Fritz shivering under him, although whether that was from the heat leaving his body or the aftershocks was questionable. One of Fritz's legs moved, but it was caught.

Fritz raised his arm a little so that he could look at Gilbert. Gilbert could tell from his eyes that he hadn't _quite _returned to earth yet, but he was at least partially there. "My feet," Fritz whispered, his words both a request and a plea.

The kingdom nodded and reluctantly pushed himself back up. His arms felt limp and useless but somehow they still worked. He looked at the nightstand, then realized that it wasn't there. Shit, he had probably dropped it sometime after he had gotten Fritz free. He pawed through the bed and found it behind Fritz's pillow, and then he crawled to the foot of the bed so he could cut the rest of the ropes that held Fritz in place. He noticed with no small amount of satisfaction that the skin around Frederick's ankles had been rubbed nearly raw and bruises were already starting to form, and the same went for his wrists.

Actually, Fritz was bruised in a _lot _of places to tell the truth. There were marks all along his thighs, chest, and neck, angry little spots of color that made him look like the victim of some strange sickness. Prussia snickered, but did not say anything as he crawled back over.

Frederick stirred a little and slid his arms around him, sluggishly pulling him closer. Well, Gilbert had half-expected him to go off on some tirade about the teasing and tying up, but this worked just fine as well. He was surprised because usually Fritz tried to clean himself off as soon as he was able, an odd hygienic streak that he had, but he had made no inclination to do so and seemed more content with hugging. Gilbert accepted the invitation graciously, sinking into the warm embrace and pillowing his head on a shoulder. "So," he said, his voice drowsy and rough. "You like my ideas yet?"

There was a pause, and then he saw Fritz shake his head no. Vigorously. But at the same time he tried to turn away so that the smile on his lips would not be seen. "Liar," Prussia said, nudging him on the side. The reply he got was a quiet laugh. "Good gods, why can't you simply accept the fact that you liked it?"

"It amuses me to watch you get annoyed," Fritz answered in a voice that was hoarse from shouting. "Besides, I'm not particularly pleased with this." He held up his hand in the faint light, displaying the marks on his wrist. True, he wasn't very happy about those, but at the moment he was still too busy floating on his private little cloud of bliss to summon any proper anger at the moment.

Gilbert took his arm and brought it closer, gently brushing his lips against the bruises, making them tingle. "You still love me though," he said, placing the arm back down. It was not a question.

Frederick decided to answer it anyway. "Yes, I do. Heaven knows why."

"Cause I'm that awesome," Gilbert said with a grin, leaning close to kiss him. It was a lazy, slow kiss that had Fritz tightening his grip around him almost possessively. When they broke apart Gilbert nuzzled his face against Fritz's and whispered in his ear, "Hey, next time will be just as fun. I'll even let _you _tie _me _up if you want."

Fritz grunted noncommittally, trying his best to sound uninterested.

Prussia knew his king better though. A huge smile came over his face and he settled back into Fritz's arms, his mind racing and already planning out a next time. After all, Fritz may not have said yes, but he didn't say no to the idea either.

**Submission**

Even after all of the years that they had known each other, Frederick was still finding things out about his love that would surprise him. For example, he knew full well how much Prussia valued his dignity and his pride. Beaten, bruised, and broken, he would cling to it doggedly with the same amount of fervor of a condemned man clinging to a last hope of redemption. Even at Kunersdorf, when he had been trapped under Russia's boot at the large man's sword had been inches away from his throat, he spat out curses and insults through the blood and screams. Even when every last bit of his power and security had been stripped away from him, Gilbert still held onto his pride and refused to be a prisoner underneath a higher power.

So it was almost frightening to see how easily all of that got thrown away for his king. All it took were a few touches and sweet words whispered in his ear and he would practically melt in Frederick's hands, willing to trust him with his body and his pride. Frederick knew it was completely voluntary too, that Gilbert was doing it on purpose.

His willingness confused him at first, but he quickly learned to like it. Not that Gilbert was subservient or anything remotely related, he was rough and demanding as ever, but sometimes the way he would submit utterly to Frederick's demands instead of his normal resistance was both puzzling and exciting to the monarch. He was supposed to be the servant of the state, but he couldn't help but love how his state bended so easily to his will, literally and figuratively. It was a gift, one just for him, and it was to be kept and prized. After all, trust was a hard thing to win, and an even harder thing to get back once it had been broken. So, he gave the albino nearly everything that he wanted, but only if Gilbert had done the same to him first.

The question was though, why?

It surfaced in his mind at unexpected intervals, like right now. He had snuck up behind his nation and surprised him, wrapping his arms around him and pressing a quick kiss under his ear. He had been feeling unusually hyper and joyous today, he knew the absolute perfect way to work all of that excess energy off and increase his happiness by tenfold. Like so many times before, he simply needed to start touching him through his clothing, massaging his hips and nibbling on his neck and Prussia turned to butter in his hands, soft and boneless and hungry for more.

Why? He suddenly thought as he was in the middle of unbuttoning Gilbert's shirt, which he was managing quite well even though he was still behind him. Why in the world was Prussia letting him do this? Usually a session with him consisted of a battle of sorts, trying to dominate the other before one of them eventually gave up. This immediate compliance was bizarre, to say the least.

Gilbert felt his hands pause and he squirmed a little in anticipation. "Hey," he said, reaching up to touch his face. "I don't know what game you're playing, but I'm getting rather impatient here." Sure it was the middle of the day, but that had never stopped them before. Besides, it was near noon and they had about an hour of free time before getting back to work.

Frederick smirked at his words. "Forgive me," he said, his hands returning to what they were doing. "My thoughts were wandering."

"About?" Gilbert asked, turning around so his job was easier. His own hands tugged at Frederick's cravat, slipping it off and exposing the top buttons of his jacket.

Frederick pressed himself closer, nudging Gilbert's legs apart with his thigh and kissing his neck, slowly dragging his teeth on the sensitive skin. "About why you're so submissive sometimes," he whispered, his breath ghosting over him. "I've never seen you yield to anyone before, not even my father and lord knows the bastard just beat everything around him into surrendering. So why me?" The last of his buttons came free, exposing Gilbert's lightly muscled torso, which always sent a small sting of jealousy into his monarch. His hands slipped into his shirt and splayed along the lean plans of his back, gently pulling him closer until there was hardly a breath of space between them. "What makes me so special?"

His tone sounded more rhetorical than honestly questioning, and only a moment later Frederick starting kissing him again, starting at his neck and traveling around his clavicle before coming back up to his lips. It was distracting in the extreme, but Fritz had gotten him thinking as well. Gilbert had never really pondered over it before, he just did it because it felt right. But that was one of the major differences between them he supposed, Fritz was always the logical thinker and Gilbert was the one who followed his gut and did things on an impulse.

The albino's hands started to roam along with his thoughts. Even when he was busy kissing, he was still pretty good at getting someone's clothes off, and his eager fingers soon pried away the irritating waistcoat and shirt, leaving him to explore his king's bare flesh in the fullest. He squeezed his thighs tightly around Fritz's leg, startling a gasp out of him. "Isn't this what you're supposed to do?" He asked, tugging the now-useless clothes off of Frederick's body. "When you love someone, you trust them. And when you trust them, they're allowed to do pretty much anything they want to you."

Frederick paused again, struck by the words. Gilbert was never so… direct, about his feelings. It was only in the throes of passion that he could even get him to say something that remotely sounded like those last few sentences. "And do you trust me?" he asked, kissing him again. He already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it out loud.

Gilbert chortled, his chest heaving under Frederick's hands. "Yeah, I do," he said lightly, as if it were no big deal, but the way his lips curled into a small smile said otherwise. He slid his fingers around Fritz waist, toying with the line of his breeches. "Now," he whispered in a much lower tone, "are you going to do anything or am I going to have to do it for you?"

His eagerness made Fritz laugh, and the monarch merely tugged the rest of his clothes off as a reply.

Gilbert would have had them fuck on the desk, since that happened to be the nearest surface other than the floor, but Fritz was having none of it and dragged the albino to the couch instead. He put up only a minor struggle which ceased completely once Fritz had pushed him onto the couch and climbed on top of him, pinning him down. He really did love how Gilbert simply leaned back and let him do what he wanted, even though his hands were busy stripping away the last vestiges of their clothes. How many of Prussia's enemies would have loved to see this? The brash and arrogant kingdom submitting to a mere human; Fritz knew that Prussia could have easily thrown him off and attacked him and he wouldn't be able to do a thing about it, but he didn't. Gilbert just leaned into his touches and moaned and purred and occasionally begged, knowing that Frederick loved it. He knew that Frederick loved it when he would tangle his fingers in his long hair and pull him closer, even though that messed up his carefully placed curls and although Fritz would complain about it later he knew that Fritz didn't regret it. Frederick loved it when he would be inside of his lover and suddenly Gilbert would wrap his arms and legs around him and pull him closer, pressing him in so deeply that it seemed as if he were a part of his nation instead of an entirely separate person.

How strange, and yet how wonderful, to have the immortal man's absolute trust and love. It was like a drug.

And when they both reached their climax that was the sweetest taste of all. For one moment there were no barriers or titles to them at all. There was no king and no country, no roles of who was on top or bottom, there were just two people who loved each other and letting it show. Afterwards Gilbert was used as a pillow for a short while, and the soldier would laugh and hold Fritz close, once again submitting to his ruler's demands for a little bit of cuddling. Not that he minded in the least bit, for despite all of his coarse and rough manners Prussia could actually be quite a soft person, provided that he was in the right mood. And if Frederick wanted to stroke his hair and murmur sweet nothings into his ear that would have had the whole world picking their jaws up off the floor, Gilbert let him because that was them. If Fritz wanted to stay a little afterwards and distract him with the flute and poetry, Gilbert would also let him because that was also them.

And if a few nights afterwards Prussia wanted to all but tackle his king to the floor of their bedroom and hold him there, Fritz wouldn't object and would whisper lewd encouragements into his beloved's ear. And when Prussia would begin to tear his clothes off, Fritz would laugh and help him out because, well, that was them too.

**Crush**

"Get back!" Prussia screamed out not two seconds before the ground in front of them exploded, shooting a fountain of dirt and smoke into the air. If they had not stopped in place then the cannonball would have struck right into the midst of their group.

Frederick pulled on his horse's reins as it whinnied in fear, keeping the beast on a very thin line of control. "Dammit! Where's Oppen?" he demanded, his sharp blue eyes flitting around the battlefield. "It does not take ten minutes to deliver a message!"

"He probably got stuck in the melee," Marshal Keith replied, motioning towards the writhing mass of Austrian and Prussian infantry that were doing their best to hack each other to pieces. It was too close for any of them to use their rifles, and bayonet was ruling the fight. The Prussians were far more advanced with the weapon, but there were more Austrians. Oppen had been sent to find Seydlitz and order him to lead a cavalry charge, and so far not even a stirring of reinforcements could be heard.

Frederick snorted, his brow furrowing angrily. They all knew that the infantry was in trouble, and they needed to send their cavalry out first before the Austrians could rouse their own. There was a sound of thunder in the distance, or rather multiple booms of thunder that overlapped each other as the Austrian artillery let off their cannons one by one. Most of the rounds landed into the infantry and some in the ground directly in front of them, but this time they fell short of them. Frederick seemed completely indifferent to the noise and the shuddering of the earth which made their mounts stamp nervously and calmly reached for his spyglass. Gilbert couldn't help but notice how easy of a target their group presented to be, standing on the crest of a hill, surrounded only by aide-de-camps and the King's personal guards. The enemy noticed too, if all of the rounds that were being directed at them were any indication.

A bullet whistled by, but it hit no one. "Rash, far too rash," Fritz said as if it never even existed. "If the cavalry doesn't come then they will have to retreat." His spyglass snapped shut sharply. "But they won't do that."

"Of course they won't," Prussia replied, knowing that Fritz was tacitly asking him for a confirmation. "They want to distinguish themselves somehow." He could feel that in his heart, his people's determination and courage that would cause them to fight down to the last man. It was taking its toll on him though, with every death the wound in his side would grow bigger and more blood would pour out of it. Soon it would soak through his clothes and then everyone would have been able to see it.

"By getting themselves killed?" Fritz retorted, irritation twisting his features.

"I hear a trumpet!" Marwitz exclaimed suddenly. "A cavalry trumpet!"

Moments after he spoke, the sound drifted to the others as well. It indeed was the peal of a trumpet, calling the cavalry together to charge. One of the cavalry regiments appeared, drawn out of their hiding spot by the call to arms, and suddenly rushed toward the enemy as one. Even from his distant position Gilbert could see Major General Seydlitz leading them, riding in the very front as usual. The thundering of their hooves made the ground beneath them tremble again and the other horses snorted in excitement.

"Finally!" Frederick sighed, his expression lifting. He watched as the mass of cavalry crashed upon the fight, scattering the men like pins. He wheeled around suddenly to view his own battalions of infantry standing behind him, calmly awaiting his orders. "Tell them to march," he ordered Marwitz. "Ride to the generals and tell them to get the men up at once. When the cavalry has softened the Austrian line we can come in and finish them off!"

The aide galloped off, practically flying down the hill in his haste. Prussia's horse tossed her head and pawed at the ground, the young blood fired up. The nation drew his sword, the sharp hiss of metal cutting through the air like lightning, and gripped it tightly in one hand, his eyes alight and the beginnings of a maniac grin already on his face. He saw the others glance at him and Fritz smiled in amusement, but his smile was quickly gone when he looked down at Gilbert's side. Oh hell, the blood must have already soaked through a little.

Neither of them had the time to make a remark about it. The drums started to play, signaling the army to march, and Fritz drew his own sword and held it over his head. The soldiers roared in response, all shouting war cries and "Long live the King!" Gilbert smiled as a new flood of adrenaline rushed through his body, taking away the pain and making it a distant memory. He saw Frederick glance at him in concern, but the king said nothing and started the forward march. The army moved forward with colors flying and instruments playing, as perfect and orderly as if they were at the grand review back in Berlin.

Gilbert laughed insanely as they came down the hill like avenging angels sent to punish those who had dare oppose them and kill their comrades. They slammed into the Austrian line like a wave, blue clashing with white to add to the image. He charged into the Austrians himself, his large Friesian knocking people over with her sheer size and his sword swinging, slashing through bodies left and right and making their blood fly high into the air. He wanted to charge right into the middle of the fray and start hacking, like the good old days, but he had to stay close to Fritz and protect him. He always kept his King in his sight, riding after him if he had to command the line from somewhere else. The other guards were around, occasionally riding off to dispatch hussars and other horsemen, but Prussia always stayed.

"Gilbert!" Fritz yelled in alarm as a few bullets flew by him, taking off a few feathers from his hat.

He laughed and gave him a reassuring wink. "I'm just fine!" he said, waving his hand dismissively. "I'm far too awesome for mere bullets to tarnish my perfect form!"

Frederick rolled his eyes. Oh hardly. He had seen Gilbert shot plenty of times. "Be careful!" he said, his worried eyes flitting over him, pausing for a moment when they saw his side.

The flow of blood had slowed, but he knew that he would have to get it checked out later or else Fritz would throw a fit. "Worry about yourself!" Gilbert shot back. "You're far more important!"

Before he could argue, another round of cannonade cut Fritz off. It was bombarding the fresh infantry units they had just sent in, but it wasn't very effective due to the sheer number of them. His aides and guards started to rush back over, trying to avoid the shells that struck the ground at random. One of them was missing though, and in the gap he created Prussia could see an Austrian soldier raising his rifle to his shoulder. He was calm, controlled, and precise, his sights pointed in a straight line at his target. Prussia knew who he was pointing at the moment he saw him.

"Look out!" he screamed, pushing his horse into a gallop. Fritz's own horse was nearly bowled over and had to jump out of his way; he managed to catch a glimpse of Frederick's astonished face before an explosion of pain rocked through his shoulder. He heard bones cracking and his arm flared in agony. Okay, _now _he was shot. He hissed in pain and grabbed his shoulder, feeling hot blood seep through his fingers. Every movement his other arm made sent ripples of pain through his body and for a moment the world spun. Abruptly as it came, the pain lessened, taken away by the life of his soldiers and their unhurt bodies. Now there was an advantage to being a nation, he could always draw on his people's energy to add to his own.

When he looked back up he saw Frederick's eyes on him, staring in shock and surprise. "Just a bullet," he said, gripping his wounded flesh harder to stop the blood. "It's a shoulder, not that serious."

Frederick knew that, but he wasn't quite buying his nation's comforting act. "Get yourself to the surgeons," he ordered, trying to wipe the concern from his face.

"Sir!" Someone called and he automatically looked up.

An odd sound pierced the air, almost like a whistle. Gilbert frowned and noticed that there was an odd black dot in the sky, getting closer and closer and he could tell that it was about to land on him. It looked like a giant black sphere.

Oh son of a bitc—

"_Gilbert!" _Frederick screamed as the cannonball hit Gilbert, knocking him right off of his horse. He could _hear _Gilbert's bones snapping in his chest as they were all crushed, and his own chest ached as if he had been the one hit. Gilbert seemed to hang in the air for a moment, suspended in place like a puppet, then he fell as if the strings holding him up had been cut. He hit the ground and actually rolled a few feet from the momentum of his flight, his body limp like a doll's. He lost his sword, his hat, and his cape tangled around his limbs as if his corpse was already being wrapped up for burial. "Gilbert!" Frederick screamed again, barely able to get his name out. _Oh no, oh no no. Please, no._

It was absurd to think that Gilbert could hear him. He was dead, after all. Nothing could survive a cannonball to the chest, and he had _heard _the bones breaking, all of them crumpling like old parchment paper. The fore of it would have also caved in his heart and lungs, an instantaneous death. Gilbert had probably been dead before he even hit the ground. _That could have been me, _Fritz thought after a moment, the revelation a sudden horror. Gilbert had pushed him out of the way of a bullet, and at the same time had also inadvertently saved him from a cannonball. "Pick him up!" he ordered, glancing at the people around him.

Everyone was shocked, and they all looked at each other as if asking for some confirmation. Pick him up? Was the King mad? Most of them knew Gilbert's true identity, since they had to spend so much time around Fritz and therefore Gilbert as well, but he was _dead. _He had been hit with a _cannonball. _Carrying his dead body around now would just slow them down.

Their inactivity made Frederick's face twist in rage. "I said _pick him up!" _he roared, pointing his sword at them, his eyes as cold and hard as the steel.

His voice was like a whip, snapping them into action. Crazy or not, he was still the King, and not only was that commanding voice nearly impossible for anyone to disobey, but he could also have them punished for not following a direct order. Two of the guards slid off their horses and ran to Gilbert's body, carefully unwrapping it and lifting it up as Gaudy grabbed the reins of Gilbert's horse, thanking the heavens that the level-headed Friesian had not bolted. Even with gunfire and artillery firing around them, Fritz refused to move until he saw that they had tied Gilbert's body securely to his saddle so that he would not fall off. He hadn't woken up yet. "Take him to Doctor Zahner," he said when they had all remounted. "And I mean it. I don't care if you have to search the entire camp, Zahner only!" Zahner was Gilbert's personal doctor, and he was one of the few surgeons in the entire army who knew how to properly take care of their nation.

Again the aides glanced at each other in confusion, but a hard glare made them hold their tongues. A round exploded somewhere near them, making the horses squeal and dance in irritation. "Be careful, dammit!" Frederick yelled as he saw Gilbert starting to slip. He had to look away; he couldn't stand the way Prussia's head lolled limply to one side or look at the blood that was all over his uniform. "Gaudy, please take him," he said after a moment, his voice considerably gentler. His chest still hurt, as if he had been hit, and he knew that he just had to get Gilbert away from him, or else his grief might get the better of him.

The aide looked confused at his sudden change, but nodded and wordlessly took the Friesian's reins and started to gallop away heading for the safety of the lines. Every jolt of the horse's body made Gilbert twitch, a mocking parody of life. Fritz swallowed and turned away again, still hearing breaking bones and feeling that crushing sadness lurking in his heart. _Get better. _He thought, hoping that this injury was not enough to keep his dear love from coming back to him. _Please, get better._

**Trapped**

"Well this was real damn smart."

"I told you I was sorry!"

"Yes, but sorries aren't going to get us out of here."

"Neither is trying to blame someone for our problems."

"The fault lies with the both of us, Colonel. But I do agree that arguing isn't going to solve anything."

Seydlitz let out a sigh and might have dramatically thrown himself down on something if there had been anything to throw himself onto. "I know, but what is?" he asked, jerking one of his hands out of the muck that they were stuck in. The mud was thick and cold and it stank of rotting vegetation, and they were both trapped in it. Worse was that neither of them knew exactly how deep it was.

"I don't know, let me think of something." Prussia muttered, rubbing his temple. "Gods this is so unawesome, what the hell?" The world, or whatever he had been yelling at, pointedly ignored him. This was so stupid! Out of every single damn thing that could have happened to them, they had to get stuck in some _mud? _Fritz would never let him live this down if he ever found out.

"Do you think we could walk out?" Seydlitz asked, ever the optimist, trying to twist himself free.

Gilbert let out a humorless laugh. "I doubt it, we're in too deep," he said. There was a frightening sucking noise as Seydlitz suddenly sank deeper into the earth, his movements encumbering him further. "Watch out!" Gilbert yelled and grabbed him by the collar before he could sink any deeper. He felt the weight of the cuirassier drag him down as well, but he never let go. Now they were submerged up to their chests in the vile muck, truly stuck, but Gilbert could at least feel somewhat-solid ground beneath him. He didn't want to move though, for fear that his numbed feet were playing tricks on him. "We have no idea how deep this pit really is," he said to Seydlitz as their descent came to a halt. "For all we know there's more mud below us and any movement could send us to the bottom."

"So I've noticed," Seydlitz replied dryly, a smirk forming on his lips. He was remarkably calm considering the fact that he had just been saved from drowning horribly in a swampy muck, but Gilbert noticed that his hands were shaking slightly as he pulled away his armor so that he could reach into a breast pocket. A few seconds later he came up with his pipe and some tobacco. "You wouldn't happen to have a flame, would you?" The young man asked half-jokingly, using his thumb to press the tobacco into his pipe.

Prussia rolled his eyes at the colonel's attempt at cheerfulness, but he didn't remark on it. "You're lucky this was in my hand when I fell in here," he said, handing him his pistol. His other gun was in its holster—which was on his hip and therefore in the mud—and both of Seydlitz's were holstered.

"Is it loaded?" Seydlitz asked, cocking the hammer back.

"No." He had fired it when they had been chasing the Austrian hussars.

"Thank you, then," Seydlitz replied, holding the striker next to his pipe and pulling the trigger. The force of the hammer hitting the striker caused sparks to fly, which landed inside of his pipe. Personally Gilbert thought that using a pistol to light anything other than a campfire was rather foolish, but hey, if the pipe would calm your nerves then by all means smoke away.

"How long do you think it'll take for the others to realize that we're gone?" The nation asked, checking the sky. It was still light outside, but barely. The only thing he could see clearly was Seydlitz, and the trees around them had turned into formless black lumps. No doubt the sun had already gone down and its light was still peeking out over the horizon.

Seydlitz was quiet for a few long moments, puffing away so that the flame in his pipe would not go out. "Well, we were chasing some Austrians, so they won't expect us for a while," he said at last. "But then again, considering our higher rank people will of course notice our absence sooner. Hopefully our horses will go straight back to the camp, where the food is, and alert everyone else that we're missing."

Gilbert snorted at the moment of the horses. It was their stupid fault that they were in this mess anyway! Yes, totally their fault. If Seydlitz's horse hadn't ridden right into the mud, thereby throwing Seydlitz off her back from the force if it, then Gilbert would never have had to turn around and try to rescue him. And if Wink had not ducked under a tree, causing a low-hanging branch to knock into him, then he would not have fallen into the mud either. And then the stupid beasts had the nerve to ride off and leave them there! Wink simply trotted off, the impudent bitch, and Seydlitz's horse had managed to somehow free herself and went after her, ignoring the calls of them both. Imagine, two of the greatest horsemen in the Prussian Army, one thrown from his horse and the other knocked off by a branch! He could hear the laughter even now.

Instead of laughs, he heard a cheep from somewhere above. Suddenly Gilbird came fluttering down and landed in his hair, chirping curiously. Of course, Gilbird! He must have flown off when Prussia had been hit and was just now returning. "Hey! Come here," he ordered, holding out his hand, which Gilbird obediently hopped into. "Listen up, I want you to fly off and go find Zieten." The bird gave him a puzzled peep. "Zieten! You know Zieten."

"Are you really—" Seydlitz started to say.

"Hush, you'll confuse him! _Zieten_," Gilbert repeated, stressing the name. Gilbird just blinked. "Ugh! You know, the short one! Furry-Hat Man!" He made a gesture above his head and Gilbird started to chirp enthusiastically and fly circles around his head. "Yes, him! Go find Furry-Hat Man and bring him back here!" The chick responded with a little "Piyo!" and flew off into the sky.

Seydlitz laughed so hard that he nearly inhaled his tobacco. "Furry-Hat Man?" he repeated, coughing a little.

Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Yes, but don't tell Zieten about it. It takes a long time for Gilbird to pick up on names, so you kind of have to describe most people to him. He'll probably understand Zieten's name after a year or so."

"Does he know me?" Seydlitz asked.

The nation gave him a look. "Yes, actually. You are Sweet-Smoke Man," he said, indicating to the pipe and the wisps of smoke curling from it. Seydlitz laughed again, his face more amused that offended.

"And the King?"

"He's just Fritz," Gilbert said. At Seydlitz's look he explained, "Gilbird can pick up on names, like I said, and he's known the King for as long as I have, so he knows him by name."

Seydlitz nodded and was silent for a long while after that, his eyes watching the light slowly fade from the sky. Gilbert watched with him, although he was scanning the area impatiently, waiting for Gilbird's return. In all honesty they were not that far from the others—he could sense his people nearby—so it shouldn't really take the bird that long to find Zieten. He knew that the general was smart enough to figure out when something was up, so it wouldn't take a whole lot of convincing for Zieten to follow him… at least that's what he was hoping. He shivered, feeling the cold mud sap the warmth from his body. They couldn't stay out here all night, they would freeze.

He saw a faint tremor go through Seydlitz as well, but the man was doing his best to hide it. "Are you certain that, er, Gilbird can find Zieten?" he asked after a moment. The light in his pipe briefly flared, showing his breathing.

"Quite," Gilbert replied, "he's never failed me before. True, it can take him forever to find someone, but he always manages to do it eventually." His feet were numb, and he tried to move them, but they seemed to be stuck. He frowned and twisted his leg back and forth, shifting his weight along both of his feet when he sank a few inches more, up to his armpits. He heard Seydlitz cry out and held up his hand to fend away the one that was reaching him. "Don't!" he snapped, feeling himself come to a stop. His arms were now lying flat on the surface of the mud, keeping him afloat. "Don't try and help me, you'll just suffer the same thing."

He heard a click as Seydlitz bit down on the stem of his pipe, a habit of his whenever he was worried or angry or thoughtful. "Well don't do that again," the colonel said, somewhat gruffly. "I would hate for the both of us to be sucked under because you were too silly to keep yourself still and I had to try and rescue you."

Prussia raised an eyebrow at him, but at this point it was so dark that Seydlitz couldn't see it. "Might I remind you that you are addressing a superior officer?" he asked.

"Yes, I am, but that superior officer also said that I could speak freely in his presence," Seydlitz shot back, the grin evident from his voice alone. "In fact, he _insisted_ that I never censor myself around him."

"Oh be quiet you gloating thing, it's not as if you are totally free of mistakes either."

"How so?"

"Well, Colonel I-Can-Ride-Us-Through-Swampland-Without-Any-Trouble, you were in fact the one who got stuck first."

"Forgive me General, but weren't you the one who ordered us to ride through here in the first place?"

They weren't really arguing, since they both knew that it wasn't entirely one person's fault. More like teasing, in a sense. After all, they had to do something to occupy the time. "That's Field Marshal to you. And I did that because you assured me that you knew your way around marshes and swamps," he replied.

"I do, but you can hardly blame me for my horse taking the bit in her mouth and running off. That was entirely without my consent."

"You are the greatest horseman in the army, are you not? How could a horse get the better of you? Not to mention you were actually thrown from her back."

"You're one to talk, being struck from your own horse by a branch that was at eye level and easily avoidable."

"And if you had not lost your grip then I would never have—"

"Piyo!"

There was a fluttering and suddenly Gilbird was back on his head again, pecking at his hair. Following it was a familiar voice: "Should I come back another time?"

The both of them whirled around to see Zieten, leaning casually against a tree with a lantern in one of his hands. The reins of a horse was in his other hand. "Zieten, you old devil! How long have you been there?" Seydlitz demanded, laughing in relief.

"Oh, I just got here, but I could hear the two of you bickering all the way across the marsh," the hussar general replied lightly. Then a huge grin came over his face. "You know, you two remind me of this old married couple that used to live across the street from me. Those two were always yelling at each other over something and they sounded remarkably like the two of you—"

"Zieten, stop smirking and help us," Seydlitz interrupted, a scowl coming over his features.

Zieten laughed and gently swung the lantern back and forth, casting dancing shadows over the deceptive ground. He didn't move.

Gilbert shook his head. "Lieutenant General Hans von Zieten," he said in the best commanding voice he could muster. "Will you _please _help us out of this marsh?"

"Of course," the little general replied, turning to his horse and digging around in his saddlebags.

"You're just doing that because he asked you," Seydlitz muttered loudly, biting on his pipe again.

"Is that a hint of jealously I detect there, Seydlitz?" Zieten said, coming up with a long coil of rope.

Prussia laughed as Seydlitz sputtered and nearly dropped his pipe into the mud. He ignored the cuirassier's hot protest and watched as Zieten tied a bit of the rope around the trunk of a tree, then threw the rest over to them. Gilbert caught it easily and wrapped his arm around it, passing a length of it to Seydlitz. When he had a good grip he started to pull on the rope, dragging himself inch by inch to the shore; even Zieten aided them by pulling on his end of the rope, and despite his size he proved to be surprisingly strong, like an ant almost. Despite this, it was quite a few minutes before he felt solid ground beneath his feet and he was able to drag himself out of the rest of the mud. Zieten gave them both a hand and all but yanked them to the shore, pulling them both out at once.

Being stuck in one place for so long hand made his limbs oddly unresponsive and rubbery. He sat back on his heels, for once unmindful of all the dirt and grime getting on his uniform because he was pretty much already covered with filth. "Thanks Zieten," he said stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders to loosen them.

"You're welcome," Zieten replied, giving him a two fingered salute. Then he turned to Seydlitz, who had managed to push himself onto one knee. "Now what was this I heard about you falling off your horse?" he asked, an almost vicious smile coming over him.

"Oh do be quiet," Seydlitz said irritably. He pushed himself up, his legs trembling at the exertion.

Zieten helped him lean against a tree. "I hope you realize that this will probably be all over the camp by tomorrow," he said as casually as if he were stating that the sun would rise tomorrow.

Gilbert groaned in concert with Seydlitz. "You really can't be that cruel, Zieten!" The youngest of them protested. "You wouldn't tell anyone!"

"No, I would not, but I don't have to tell anyone," Zieten replied calmly. "Your horses came into camp, riderless and spattered with mud. Then you two will arrive, the both of you covered almost head to foot in more mud. Everyone knows that there are deep mud pits in the area, and it won't require a genius to figure out what happened." He hung the lantern from a tree and went back down the path he came. "I also brought horses for you, by the way," he explained and came back a minute later leading two mounts for them. Seydlitz thanked him and promptly vaulted into his saddle, his weariness briefly forgotten. For a few seconds Zieten watched him, his smile never leaving his face. "Just don't fall off again, alright? I would hate to have to pull you out of the mud twice."

"My God, Zieten," Seydlitz growled, running his temple with his mud-free hand. "I'm not going to fall off."

"Twice," Gilbert added, causing Seydlitz to glare at him. Zieten laughed and shook his head in amusement, climbing on top of his own horse. The colonel all but _bristled _in indignation_, _then he wheeled his horse around and trotted away, leaving the two of them snickering to themselves and hurrying after him.

**Photo Album**

The grainy black and white photo had turned yellow over time, but the image in it was still clear as ever. The lack of colors to it seemed to give a more serious tone to the setting, at least that was Ludwig's opinion. Granted, that could have also been because that cameras and photography had just been invented and many people were awkward and stiff in many old pictures because of it, but then again Gilbert was one of those rare few who took immediately to the new invention. But even with Gilbert's lighthearted smirk staring at him from the ancient picture he still thought that his brother looked very calm and collected. So unlike how he was now. Standing beside him in the picture was none other than Ludwig himself, still caught in the gangly teen years of his youth. They were both in full dress uniform, since Gilbert had insisted it, and Gilbert's arm was around his shoulders, pulling him closer into a one-handed embrace. After a moment he turned the picture over. Written on the back in Gilbert's rapid, slightly archaic handwriting was a date, the year 1879. The same day that he had become an official country.

He tucked the paper into the protective sheet of the binder, carefully making sure that it wouldn't tear. He had arranged all of the pictures in his collection by the date they were taken, and this was the first picture of the two of them together. All of the ones before that were pictures and paintings of Gilbert, depicting him striking all sorts of poses in order to "capture the essence of his awesomeness" as Gilbert had once put it. He pitied the poor photographers and painters that had to sit through that.

With a sigh and a roll of his eyes—because honestly Gilbert took up half of the whole album by himself—he turned the page. His baby blue eyes flitted across the next group of pictures. All of them were of the brothers together, standing in a military parade of Prussia's, posing with Bismarck (whom Prussia had dragged unwillingly into the shot), standing outside of a post office in Berlin, or walking around the grand fountain in front of Sanssouci. In all of them they were smiling. Ludwig noticed that more than anything. The lack of colors still gave off a serious undertone, but the emotion in the picture was still very real, as real as it had been the day it had been taken. They were talking and smiling and in one of the photos Gilbert was laughing outright, and it was so beautiful that Ludwig's heart hurt. They were the final years of the Kingdom of Prussia, where his brother had been strong and powerful and confident. Before his decline.

Germany turned the page again. Gilbert was driving his first car and Ludwig was cowering in the seat next to him, and the chaos that the albino had caused that day had almost forced Berlin into a lockdown. The Kaiser had not been very happy about that. In contrast the next picture was of them sitting on a bench, enjoying a box of pastries that Gilbert had bought. Some amateur photographer had snapped the shot, since he had seen Gilbert's albinism and wanted to publish it. He remembered how Gilbert had chased the man down the street and stolen his camera, right after he had given him two black eyes first. The only reason why no permanent damage had been done to him was because Ludwig had dragged his brother off of him. They kept the pictures though, because it really had been a good shot.

There was one of them visiting Munich together, and then a whole handful of ones that had France and Spain in them, cavorting drunkenly around Frankfurt with Gilbert, and Ludwig had been their unwilling accomplice. He still had no recollection of what happened that night. He smiled as he flipped the page again, but in an instant he vanished.

The next page was empty.

He swallowed, feeling ice prickle his spine. He knew why this part was blank. Despite all of the journalists and photographers that went to the trenches to observe the First World War, there were no pictures of himself during that time. He had actually refused them. Prussia had as well, and for many years those pages remained unchanged. He skipped over the empty sections and stumbled across a picture labeled "1923" that showed Gilbert using piles of their worthless marks to build a model of a giant wurst. That was the only one of its kind, Germany had no desire to see himself during his depression, and he had been too busy to take one anyway.

He frowned at the book. Actually…

Now that he really thought about it, the whole rest of the album was empty, except for a section at the back depicting the present day. Pictures of the brothers during World War II did exist, but they had no place here. Their defeat, occupation, crimes, humiliation, the Wall…nothing. Ludwig already had plenty of memories of those times, there was no need to keep mementos. He sighed and opened to the back of the book, and colors exploded in front of his eyes. The dreary black cloud was gone and energy and life shone out of these new pictures. For the first time they were smiling without reservation, all of the stiffness of their previous photos gone. Sometimes the Italies, Japan, and occasionally America would be hanging out in the background, either laughing at them or trying to butt into the picture, and someone (France, he was certain) had stolen the camera for one shot and had snapped a picture of Gilbert's ass.

Suddenly he heard footsteps behind him and Gilbert leaned over the back of the couch to look at him. "A photo album? Seriously West?" he asked, propping his elbows up on the furniture. "You are such a woman sometimes. Who the hell keeps a damn photo album in their house?"

"Hey, some of these are worth lots of money," Ludwig replied, thumbing to the front to show him the older pictures.

"Who cares? Why would you look at pictures when you have The Awesome Me here in person?" Gilbert suddenly clambered over the back of the couch and dropped rather ungracefully next to him, splaying half of his body across Ludwig's lap. "I'm bored, _Bruder. _Entertain me!" he demanded.

Ludwig rolled his eyes. "Get off," he said, pulling the album out from under Gilbert's body.

"Weeest," Gilbert whined, nudging him in the stomach. "Come on, you've been out here for an hour probably cleaning and looking at pictures and all sorts of unawesome shit and I've been alone! Is that any way to treat your older brother?" He nudged him again, more insistently this time. "We should do something together."

"Like what?" Ludwig asked, closing the album and laying it on the table. Gilbert was obviously not going to leave him alone long enough for him to look at it, so why bother?

The albino scrunched up his face, deep in thought. "Hey I know! Let's go to the park! The dogs will love it."

Ludwig frowned at that and was going to reply when the clattering of paws interrupted him and suddenly all three of the dogs were around them, wagging their tails hopefully. They knew well enough what the word "park" meant and now Gilbert had probably riled them all up with his words. Aster whined and put her paws up on the couch, leading Gilbert to scratch her on the head. "Alright, fine," Ludwig said, pushing against his brother again. "But get up so I can leave."

"Yay!" Gilbert cheered, shooting up and wrapping his arms around his little brother. Before Ludwig even had time to register it he kissed him and then bounced off, running to get the leashes while the dogs chased excitedly after him.

**Chastity**

"Come on, let me touch your balls damnit!"

"Like, what the heck's wrong with you? Get away from me!"

The Teutonic Knights frowned to himself. That was not an acceptable answer! Other should have been praising him on their knees for his awesomeness, not running! "Come back here!" he yelled, widening his pace. Thankfully Poland's legs were shorter than his, so he couldn't run as fast. "Don't make me take your vital regions by force!"

"Vital regions?" Feliks repeated, glancing over his shoulder as he ran. "Totally not a cool name!"

Gilbert growled and leaned forward, putting all of his efforts into catching him. He knew that he was stronger because the Knights made him train every day, and stupid Feliks with his girlish ways probably slacked off all the time. In one final push he flung himself at the blond like a cat and managed to grab him around the ankles, causing him to trip and fall face-first to the ground. Feliks started to kick and thrash, but Gilbert held on tightly. "This is what happens when you resist me!" The knight crowed victoriously.

"No, get off!" Feliks shouted, reaching for his sword, but it was trapped against his body and the ground.

"What the hell are you idiots doing?"

Gilbert looked over at Hungary, who was standing nearby with a disapproving scowl on her face. "Hang on, Hungary. I'm busy," he said, reaching up the grab Feliks by his cape.

"Help me!" Poland yelled, starting to scratch at the ground with his fingers. "Hungary please help me!"

Hungary rolled her eyes and came closer. "Let him go, you freak," she said, stopping right beside them.

"Hah! You're the freak," Gilbert muttered. A second later he was kicked sharply in the stomach. "Ow! What the hell you asshole?" He yelled, curling up a little.

"I said let him go! Just because your knights passed that weird law doesn't mean that you have to take it out on everyone!" She grabbed them and tried to pull them apart but she tripped and fell right on top of them. For a few seconds there was a mass of flying punches and kicks, and then Poland broke free and started running for his life, holding his face and limping some.

"Now look what you did, he got away!" Gilbert said, pulling on Hungary's hair.

"Don't pull my hair you jerk!" she shouted and promptly elbowed him in the stomach, loosening his grip so she could slip away. "Besides, you were the one who was chasing him and doing all of that weird shit so you deserved it."

Gilbert rubbed his stomach gently. "Well it's not my fault that the Knights just passed these stupid laws," he muttered. "I mean, I don't care about getting married but not being able to get any action at all? I mean, that's just ridiculous!"

"It's about being pure or something, you idiot!" Hungary snapped, brushing off her clothes. She wasn't really sure what exactly being "pure" was and why it was such a big deal, but if everyone was making such a big deal about it then it had to be important.

"Don't call me an idiot!" Gilbert yelled, tackling her and punching her in the ribs.

"I'll call you whatever I want!" Hungary yelled back, kneeing in him the gut, right over where she had already hit him. For a moment they fought, but then they broke apart with Gilbert holding his jaw and Hungary holding her eye. A momentary truce was called after that, since they had both managed to land a hit on the other.

Gilbert puffed out his lip and scratched absent patterns into the dirt. "I think it's silly," he said after a long moment. "Not being able to do anything with women…" A large grin formed on his face as he said that, though. "But they never said anything about guys. Hey wait a moment, Hungary! You're a guy! You can let me touch _your _balls!"

Instantly Hungary blushed all the way up to her hairline. "N-No!" she said, scrambling to her feet and backing away. The very idea of that annoying knight getting near her like _that _made her insides twist up.

"Why not?" Gilbert asked, getting up as well. "You're a guy, and so am I. What's the problem?"

"Just because we're both guys doesn't mean that you can go and touch my balls!" Hungary shot back, her face reddening as she said the words.

The young country noticed this, too. "What, you don't like saying balls?" he said, a huge smirk stretching his lips. "God, you can be such a woman sometimes. Good thing you're not though! Now come here!" He held out his arms.

"No!" Hungary yelled again, backing up even further. "Don't you dare touch me!"

"Don't make me have to invade you," Gilbert said, starting to laugh. "Another conquest for the Knights! Hiyaaa!" He launched himself at his fellow country, and the both of them went down, rolling around in the dirt, kicking and screeching. They fought like two animals, Gilbert trying to twist Hungary's limbs and force her into a submissive position while Hungary kept trying to break free.

It was a fight that Gilbert did not win.

**Voices**

"_I would be careful, Friedrich, we're treading on a very fine line here."_

"_My Prince, why are you crying? Please, dry your eyes for me. A face like yours does not deserve tears."_

"_I do not wish to desert my country, it would seem cruel to him. I don't care what your father thinks, though. Anyone who mistreats you so deserves to be sent to the lowest pit of Hell."_

"_Don't act too rash now. Calm down for a moment and let's think this through. After all, I'm not going to back out, but getting caught will certainly result in our deaths."_

"…_I'm sorry you have to suffer through this, love. Cry into this, if you want."_

"_How could you ever think that I would abandon you? I love you, Friedrich, with all of my heart."_

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I loved you._

_I love you._

_I _

_ l_

_ o_

_v_

_ e_

_ d _

_you._

He could hear the words echoing all around him, overlapping each other and making a sort of white noise on his brain until one line was spoken with a particular vehemence. They came from everywhere and nowhere and surrounded him with their gentle caresses, then tore him apart the very next moment with their memories.

I love you. How his heart had warmed when he first heard those words! And now the very thought of them was causing that same heart to shriek in agony.

He twisted in his bunk, as if that could somehow throw the voices off of him. The creak of the wood just made them get louder.

"_Tonight? Friedrich, it's too dangerous. We're not safe yet, please, I beg you, wait a while longer!"_

"_I agree, the French fashion does suit you quite well. I don't mind the uniform, but this coat makes you look so much more attractive."_

"_My Prince, are you always this lazy in the morning? We didn't even do anything last night and you're as stubborn to wake as a child."_

"_Don't you dare tell me that is 'nothing!' Good God, Friedrich, that bruise is as wide as my hand! No, no objections! I don't care if you are my Prince, you are also my lover and I will not let you go untreated."_

The walls were speaking to him.

That's where the voices were coming from. They oozed out of the cracks and slithered down the floor, thick and heavy, like the fog that would roll in from the marshes. That wonderful, comforting voice that had been there whenever he needed it, that voice that would drown out his sorrows and pain and would replace it with love. It came to him when he fell asleep, and then it started appearing during the day. Or was he just dreaming? The only thing he was certain of was the voice.

Or, voices. After a while more had come.

"_Hey Fritz, you okay? ….No need to get all hostile, I was just asking. Hey don't start pulling that silent crap with me now, you've always been able to trust me! I've always been there for you."_

"_Ungrateful brat! So you were going to run off and desert, eh? Where were you going to go? Tell me!" _

"_So that's what your hair really looks like? It's a wonderful color, very suiting."_

"_Leave me alone! You can never know how I feel!"_

"_You say that you don't know love, and I say that is untrue. You just haven't been given enough to let you know what it really is. I promise you, Friedrich, you never need to worry about that with me. I already told you that I love you, and I promise that I will show you how much before this night is done."_

"_Get out of my sight! You faint-hearted scoundrel, can't you even stick up for yourself? Of course not! A fool with no honor just takes what comes his way; if I were you then I would have run away a long time ago, but you haven't even got the courage to do that."_

"_Oh, mein lieber Prinz… You're a mess sometimes, you know that?"_

"_I'm so sorry… I bring it upon myself."_

"_Nein. Don't you _ever _say that. You've done nothing to deserve this, love."_

"_Fritz, about what happened today, I can't believe he did that. Honestly, I would have stopped him if I had known."_

"_No you wouldn't."_

"_Fritz—"_

"_Your Majesty! Cut me to pieces, but spare your son!"_

He was jolted awake by hands on his shoulders, shaking him gently. It was dark, so dark, like he was trapped inside the womb of some stone best. But this womb was cold and lifeless and unforgiving. Someone had been screaming, but the moment he woke up it stopped.

"Dear Prince—"

"_My Prince—"_

"—it was just a dream—"

"_Hey calm down, Fritz. Dreams aren't gonna hurt ya'."_

"Do you need something—"

"_What I need, Katte, is to get out of here!"_

" —to sleep?"

Sleep.

Yes, that sounded wonderful.

Sleep didn't hurt. Sleep was cool and gentle, and the voices there were kind. Except when they weren't. His eyes fell shut again on their own accord, before his two faceless guards could even finish what they were saying. As he drifted away he felt a hand on his head, combing through his disheveled curls like a mother soothing her child. The phantom fingers skimmed across his forehead, curling his hair around his ear, the same way… the same way he…

A soft chuckle reached him, so familiar that it hurt. It couldn't be real, it couldn't. He saw the body, he saw the head in the dust. Those fingers, that voice could not exist, but they sounded and felt so real. _"Mein Prinz," _his voice, so often remembered, murmured. It sounded amused, and yet patiently loving, like he always had. _"My dear Friedrich."_

He turned his head away, burying it into his pathetic excuse of a pillow. A lump was in his throat, and hot tears trickled out of his tightly shut eyes as he remembered those words for the thousandth time.

"_To die for such a sweet prince is an honor."_

**Adrenaline**

He loved this. The roar and scream and clash of battle, hot gun smoke filtering through his vision and the pounding of feet and hooves trembling the ground below. This is what he was made for. This was where he had his first success, as the Teutonic Knights conquering the heathen lands of the pagans.

It didn't matter that this was a different time with a different battleground and different people. All wars were the same. The only thing that differed was the amount of destruction.

He laughed wildly as he felt his sword plunge into a man's side, no doubt shredding through his guts. Screw the silly rifles and bullets, this was how you really fought! Face to face with the enemy, close enough to feel their gore spatter across your face. Fighting using skills and physical strength was so much more satisfying than just firing a gun, although those had their benefits as well. But this was embedded in him, his very first battles revolved around swords and slaughter, and he couldn't erase that streak from him even if he wanted to.

And his people, his brave soldiers, they loved it too. Caught up in the moment of battle, courting with Death, not knowing if they would be dead the next moment. It created a storm of energy that was all channeled into him, one body feeling the lives of thousands; it felt like he was flying and that nothing could ever touch him. He was always among them, feeling what they were feeling, sharing their victory and spoils while at his King's side. Hell even Frederick was affected, why else would he be on the front lines, bullets flying about him as he shouted and directed and occasionally drew his own sword as well? The pure thrill of it, he knew.

"Oh, don't try to fool me," the nation said when Fritz had first tried to deny it and brush it off. "You love the adrenaline rush, all of us do. It's not a crime."

"To like killing, it is not?" Frederick asked, looking up from his book.

Prussia chuckled. "You're being far too broad. What about that 'good for the Fatherland' stuff you were spouting out when we started this war?"

Fritz couldn't help but mirror his nation's grin. "Alright, you caught me. I like the feeling of battle, but not the actual killing itself."

"You don't have to," Gilbert replied, surprised at how easily he had folded. "After all, they're both two different things."

Yes, completely different. Just like what happened during the battles and after were two different things…

…well, only sometimes.

Prussia may have been injured, but sometimes the wounds were not that serious. They would heal up soon anyways, so he rarely worried about the, especially if the victory he had won was particularly awesome. But he could still feel the energy, the pure euphoria of his people as they were caught up in their victory. He felt so happy and awesome and as if he were about to literally explode from the force of all of the different emotions building up inside of him. Often he went to find work after his battles, ride or visit the injured or do something to get rid of that energy so he wouldn't be bouncing around later as if he were on a sugar high. And that was where Fritz would come in; they were both on a rush and they both needed to get rid of it, so why not?

Fritz rarely started it, most of the time it was Prussia luring him away or catching him alone and then forcing him up against a wall or a bed or really whatever they had at the moment. Their kisses were heated and rushed, punctuated by sucking and harsh bites that left red rings all over each other's skin. They were far too pumped up, far too wild to think about being careful or soft. They had just gotten out of a _battle _and were lucky to still be alive, slow and loving sex was not going to cut it.

_Sex ist eine Schlat._

_Liebe ist Krieg._

Gentleness was a thing of the past, like a beloved pet that had been left at home so it wouldn't have to see the dangers of war. They bite and scratched each other, marking their territories and conquests of their bodies. Again another battle, but an entirely different sort of one that used moans for battlecries and nails and teeth for guns. Were they even trying to find a victor? No, the victory was in the pleasure and the excitement of fucking until the room started to spin around them. And yet they had to drive it higher, higher, ever higher, trying to recreate that wonderful wave of adrenaline which heightened everything around them and made their blood burn_._

Even though gentleness rarely had a place now, it still managed to sneak after them and find the most unexpected moments to emerge. Afterwards, among sweat and panting as their energy left them, it found a home. A kiss or a touch, a few murmured words of affection, is where it revealed itself. There was no time for sweet nothings or cuddling or sleeping, war was always present, whether in affairs of love or battle, and they were hurried along by it. It was like the other side of the coin, the lustful and passionate side of love that hurried things as opposed to its more gentle half. It was an odd and uncertain sort of life, but neither of them were complaining.

After all, the fun they had was more than worth it.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: If you throw tomatoes, can they at least not be rotten? ;3;**

****Restraint: SO YEAH GUYS. Um, well, this just happens to be my first lemon ever. *coughs* I'm such a schizo with my writings sometimes... I was really wigging out about this cause I had no idea if it was good or not and I was just ready to hide this away forever but a dear DA frien of mine was lovely enough to tell me that she loved it. So, at least one person did ^^  
>I can totally see Prussia doing this too. I know that Fritz's German is quite good here, and I have a headcanon that actually has him speaking German rather well. Mainly because he had to speak to his soldiers and a good bit of his generals in German, but also because Gilbert will pull this crap on him and refuse to have sex with him unless he speaks it. Correctly. XD<br>These should be (rough) translations of what Fritz is saying:  
>-Ich will daß du mich berührst (I want you to touch me)<br>- Ich brauche dich (I need you)  
>-Hör auf mich nur scharf zu machen und fick mich endlich (Stop with the tease game and fuck me already)<br>-Genau da, ja genau da! Halt, was machst du? (Right there, yes right there! Wait, what are you doing?)  
>-Nein! Bitte hör nicht auf! Gilbert, ich schwöre bei Gott wenn du aufhörst, dann werde ich.. (No! Don't stop, please! Gilbert, I swear to god if you stop I'll-) -Lass mich frei (Let me go)<strong>**

**Submission: And here you see a bit of my view on their relationship. In just the previous story I had Prussia topping Fritz, and now it's the other way around. In all honesty I couldn't care less who tops or bottoms, and who's seme or uke (and honestly stereotypes like that kind of irk me, nothing against them though XDD) so basically all of my characters are seke XD It doesn't matter to me, as long as I get my porn XDD**  
><strong>I always wondered just how Prussia could bottom to Fritz anyway, because he has such a huge ego that I don't he could be a bottom forever. I knew that he would do whatever Fritz wanted him to do because he loved him, but explaining it was kinda tricky. XD<strong>  
><strong>This also shows me never to start listening to Disney songs in the middle of writing. Because they will go from hot to GOOEY SAP in seconds XDD I'm sorry if this rotted your teeth out with sweetness, gotta watch out for that.<strong>

****Crush:** I don't know what battle this is supposed to be, it's just a battle XDD However it's after Kolin, I can tell you that much. I needed some Fritz angst cause I haven't seen it in a while. :P  
>I think that even though Prussia has told Fritz time and again that he can't die and he'll come back to life if did die, Fritz still freaks the hell out whenever he does die. I mean, he probably has a problem about the people whom he loves dying, considering what happened to Katte and all… besides it gives me an excuse to write Fritz as all worried and mother-henny, and I think it's adorable ^_^ (Hey at least his head wasn't blown off! *shot*)At least Gilbert didn't get his head blown off...<br>Oppen, Marwitz, and Gaudy are real people, and were actual aides to Fritz. In fact the only fictional character in here aside from Gilbert is Zahner, who insists on making himself a part of my stories. P  
><strong><br>Trapped:** I loved writing this, so much XDDD Although I have no idea why I'm picking on Seydlitz, he's my favorite general aside from Zieten XD I probably messed up his personality too, but I always heard that he was bold, outspoken, and a bit rash, so I tried to make it seem that way but at the same time I think I made him act too young…. Although he was the youngest general in the Prussian Army at the time. (He's called Colonel in this story because this happened before Kolin.)  
>Anyway, this plot just literally popped out of nowhere. I wanted Prussia to be trapped in something, and after a long time I thought of a mud pit, but he needed some company so I decided to dump Seydlitz in there as well, then make fun of him for falling off his horse. Seydlitz was supposed to be like, the best horseman in the army ever, so I thought that it would be funny if he fell off his horse because everyone would tease him about it. Then Zieten had to come to add more win to the story XD Personally I think the three of them would have gotten along wonderfully, seeing how alike they are at times.<br>I'm actually kind of mad that I couldn't find a name for Seydlitz's horse, as silly as that sounds. I found one before, but I couldn't find it again and I was really mad at that. And the name of Gilbert's horse is, in fact, Wink. There's an odd sort of reasoning behind that one XDD  
><strong><br>Photo Album:** Ah, this was one of my "I-don't-know-what-to-write-so-I'll-just-put-down-whatever-sounds-good" prompts. Again I somewhat rambled XD It would be totally in character for Germany to keep a photo album in his house, and I had so much fun thinking up the pictures and the stories behind them.  
>This was totally going to be angsty at first, but I checked my future prompts and a lot of them are loaded with angsty stuff, so I decided to make this fluffy instead~ You can still see traces of it though, with Germany musing about wars and stuff. Good thing Gilbert's there to be his usual annoyingly endearing self and take his mind off of things.<strong>

****Chastity:** ...All I have to say is that if Himapapa had never done that one Christmas strip that showed this scene, this prompt would have never been filled XDDD That seriously made me laugh my ass off and I wanted to continue it so badly XD  
>My little Prussia and Hungary fight. A lot. Fluff moments are few and far inbetween. It was kind of odd writing for them too, because I wanted to call Hungary "he" but that would have been confusing and I had a hell of a time trying not to type "Prussia" because Gilbert wasn't known as Prussia back then P<br>Hungary still thinks she's a guy in this one, but the idea of Prussia getting close to her or touching her "balls" just freaks her out cause Prussia's a little freak like that XD  
><strong><br>Voices:** Hmm, insanity? Check. Angst? Check. Hints of fluff? Check. To come whumpage? Check check aaaand check and oh gods I love this so much. Writing crazy people if a favorite of mine ;w;  
>Kustrin again, although that should have been pretty obvious. Yeah yeah Fritz went off the deep end for a few days after Katte died and was sick and had hallucinations and stuff, we should all know this. Annnywaaaays my favorite creepy music band came back to help me write the beginning of his spiral into craziness. At first I was going to have him hear nothing but Katte's voice, but then I threw more in there because more voices equals more crazy.<br>You see, at first he's hearing nothing but voices, and at the end he's starting to imagine people touching him, so he's just going downhill. Just wait till he starts seeing stuff because _it gets worse._ In my very nxt set of three there's a prompts called Insanity and...oh lord I'm gona go all out on that one *cackles*  
>Poor, poor Fritz. How I torment you so XD<br>**  
>Adrenaline:<strong> Hmmm, I think it's short, but I kind of ran out of things to say because I wasn't quite sure what I wanted to do with this anyway. But I do love the idea of rough sex after a battle cause it's so Prussia :3 I hate how I ended too, it seems rushed to me. Argh.  
>So at first it was just going to be Prussia being insane on the battlefield but I already did that so my pervy mind decided to come along and be all "Well you can get an adrenaline rush from OTHER things if you GET my SUBTLE hints" and I was all "Hell yeah" and started writing about them fucking the hell out of each other XD<br>The German lines comes from a Rammestein song called "Wollt Ihr das Bett in Flammen Sehen" Rammestein is one of my favorite bands ever and I thought the lyrics were pretty fitting for the situation. **


	15. February Song

**A/N: I was going to make this a stand alone story, but I think it would fit in here much better. It's still February 25th where I am so this still counts in terms of writing something for Prussia dissolution XDD The title of the story of based off of a Josh Groban song of the same name, but also a Fritz/Prussia video that happens to have the song in it, which I pretty much looped all while I was typing this. And "February" Song? Too. Perfect. Just type in "Fritz and Prussia" in Youtube and it should come up. It's so beautifully sad ;w;**

* * *

><p>He hated this. He hated how weak and pathetic he felt, how weak and pathetic he <em>was. <em>It was so, so stupid, after all that time trapped behind the Wall he thought that he would get used to feeling like nothing. And yet… and yet….

So close, he had been so close to being with his brother again. Fuck, he _had _been with Ludwig, but it had been such a short time. He never got the chance to say much of anything to him, how much he loved him, and how much he had missed him for all of those years. Gods, out of all the times he had been dissolved in the past, _this _was the one time that would send him away for good? It was the cruelest of all ironies, the one time he didn't want to die was the time he finally vanished.

And it was so goddamned frustrating. All of that fighting, hanging in there and surviving that crazy Russian's rule, all to have it become completely pointless within a week. Why hadn't Fate just spared him the trouble and killed him when the State of Prussia had died? That would have made things so much easier. Even now it made no sense, and it probably never would, and the only thing it had brought him was more heartache. Just the thought of his dissolution made the tears flow out of his eyes. It was strange, you would think that a dead person couldn't cry anymore, but apparently that was not true.

"And then… and then they dissolved me," he managed to choke out past his tears. His words were muffled because his face was buried into the fabric of a uniform, but the owner of it heard him just fine. "It was so fucked up, I couldn't believe it. They all just wanted t-to get rid of me." He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but a strangled sob wrenched it way out. "I didn't even _do _anything that time," he almost wailed, his breaths becoming more ragged as he fought to stop himself from breaking down into a complete mess. "I don't fucking get it, not even I went that far when I had been a country." Oh gods, _had been? _The words had come so readily to his lips, and he had spoken them! Another sob wracked his body and he shuddered, pressing his face deeper into the wonderful, comforting warmth that surrounded him.

Fingers gently stroked his hair, and that made him want to cry harder. No one had ever touched him in a loving way for a long time. It was the exact same as he had always remembered it: long, almost delicate fingers brushing his bangs across his forehead, then moving the back of his neck and stroking down in a soothingly repetitive motion. "I know," the voice, so well-remembered in his dreams, murmured to him. It was like warm summer sunshine and hearing it brought back thousands of memories, of the gardens in Sanssouci and the warbling notes of a flute sonata, of all the battle and hardships and joys that they had shared. "There, there, _liebling, _don't cry."

He knew that Frederick didn't really care if he cried. He never did. Gilbert had always tried to not cry in front of anyone, to show any sort of weakness. But Fritz had seen him cry before. He was the only one though, not even Ludwig had seen him cry but once, when the Wall came down. That's because Gilbert was supposed to be the older brother, the stronger one. He didn't have to be a role model for Fritz though, and he knew that his former King would understand him completely. So he simply bit his lip to quiet the noises he was making and let himself cry; he had never allowed himself to cry out of his own free will, but he was dead now, and silly things like pride didn't matter once you were dead. "So fucked up…" he muttered again, but he seemed to be talking to himself now. "What do they think gave them the right to do it? Y-You can't just write up a piece of paper telling a country that they no longer exist, and then tell its millions of citizens that they're no longer Prussians! It doesn't work that way, it doesn't." He knew he sounded like a child throwing a tantrum, but goddammit he should be allowed to throw one after all the shit he had just gone through! It was a miracle that he had waited this long!

"I'm sorry," Fritz said, a quiet sigh escaping him. It broke his heart to see his beloved nation so unlike himself, beaten and downtrodden. He had always hoped that when they met again, it would always be under much happier circumstances, but he was not surprised to find out that such was not the case.

Gilbert turned his head, one bloodshot eye staring up at him. " Th' hell are you sorry for?" he asked, closing his eyes as Fritz wiped his tears away with a thumb. "S'not your fault. Nothing is your fault." His breath hitched a little as he continued to cry into Fritz's lap. He even smelled the same, like old parchment paper, ink, leather, fresh spring grass, and of course a hint of snuff. Why in the world he would have a smell Gilbert had no idea, since neither of them had a physical body and no need for any material things… just another oddity to chalk onto the afterlife. "Nothing was your fault, you were the greatest and-and they used you as a fucking symbol of their own fucked up ideas and—" he started to choke again, his throat tightening.

"Shhh," Fritz quickly said, petting his hair and pulling him closer so that he could rest his head on his chest. "Shh, shh, it's alright _liebling," _he said as he pressed a kiss into his messed up hair. "I don't mind what they did. I've been dead for centuries, it's not like it's going to harm my pride or anything." One of his arms circled his shoulders while Fritz's remaining hand continued to comb through his hair.

The gesture was so touching that Gilbert almost wanted to cry again. It had been so _long _when he had last been held like this, as if he were something precious and fragile and that the slightest wrong move would break him. He leaned into the embrace like a child resting against its mother and just listened for a long minute. Even though his head was resting right over where Frederick's heart would have been, he couldn't feel or hear anything beating. Then again his king was just a soul now, and he had no need for a heart. That still didn't make it any less creepy, and a steady heartbeat like Fritz's would have helped him calm down. "I hate that day," he said after a long minute of utter silence.

Fritz looked down at him, which was rather difficult since they were both lying down. "February 25th?" he hazarded.

Gilbert nodded. "Yes, every time it came by I could feel how empty I was. My people had gone and… and I don't know how to describe it. It was like someone had cut me open and all of my guts had spilled out, but I was still alive."

Frederick winced at the macabre choice of words, and the little image that suddenly popped into existence in the corner of his eye that he did his best to ignore, and tightened his grip for a moment. "Again, I'm so sorry, my dearest nation," he said and resting his head against Gilbert's. "The world truly has not been very kind to you."

"I told you to stop saying that," Gilbert sighed, crawling up so could rest his head on Frederick's shoulder. "Gods, if anyone should be apologizing then it's me." He scrubbed his eyes furiously.

Frederick summoned a handkerchief from thin air and passed it to Gilbert. "Why in the world would you say that?" he asked in confusion. "You're the victim here, and from what I've seen of the world you've paid whatever price you owe a hundred times over now."

The ex-nation accepted the handkerchief wordlessly and dabbed at his eyes, but he knew that it was useless. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice trembling with his body. "I-I fucked up. I know I promised that I would try t' keep Prussia strong when you were gone, b-but it was only two centuries before it was gone." A harsh sound clawed its way out of his body, something between a cry and a sob. "Two hundred years! Th-That's barely anything to a nation, and a-all of that hard work you did, the Seven Year's War, all of that bloodshed and grief and death ended up being pointless! You worked your whole life to make me strong, and I blew it. Oh my gods I'm so pathetic Fritz, I'm so sorry! I f-f-failed miserably, p-please don't hate me, I tried so hard to keep the country together, but I just couldn't and all of your life's work was for nothing—" He broke off with a gasp and pressed his hands against his eyes, rubbing the heels into them as if he could physically push the tears back. They just trickled out from underneath his hands and ran into his hair.

Frederick sat up, still holding Gilbert against him. "Gilbert," he said, trying to pry Gilbert's hands away from his face. "Gilbert, please look at me." The albino shook his head a little, but Fritz finally managed to pull his hands away and gently cup his face in his own. He turned his love up so that could look him in the eyes. Gilbert's own were still bright and inflamed, his face a mess of wet tears and reddened cheeks, while Frederick remained perfectly calm and composed, his sad blue eyes burning with a radiance that they had never had when he had been alive. "I don't hate you," he said, his voice quiet and serious. "I never _could _hate you, love. I don't know where you get these ideas." One of his thumbs gently stroked Gilbert's cheeks, and then he leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. "I'm proud of you," he whispered against his skin.

Gilbert's eyes flew open in shock. "W-Why?" he murmured, for a moment sounding like a confused child.

He sighed quietly and nuzzled into Gilbert's hair. It was a moment before he spoke. "Because you tried so hard, _liebling. _Sometimes things just happen that are beyond our control, and because of it we lose. But that doesn't mean it's our fault. You were so brave throughout all of those years, and so strong… you've always been the stronger one out of us. And I know you fought tooth and nail for everything you've ever lost or gained, and you never stopped, not even when you knew that it was hopeless." Fritz's voice wavered and he paused for a long moment, his own eyes growing misty. "Always a soldier, always fighting to keep everything together." He pulled Gilbert closer, resting his head on Gilbert's shoulder and smiling when he felt Gilbert hug him in return. "I'm sorry because you couldn't win. I hate to see you get so torn up over something, and I'm sorry that you're hurting."

He felt a nod into his shoulder. "I just wish it didn't hurt so _much," _Gilbert mumbled, as if he was embarrassed to say it.

"It hurts at first, but then it goes away," Frederick replied. "You aren't supposed to feel any pain at all here." And he had not so far. The afterlife was a place of peace, and a true final rest. Those world-weary souls finally had a chance to relax and play, which living had not allowed them to do. The former king suddenly broke out into a brilliant smile, one that was unnoticed by his country. "I've missed you," he said, squeezing him tightly.

His embrace was quickly returned. "You have?" Gilbert asked curiously.

Fritz nodded. "More than anything," he replied in earnest. "At first it was wonderful because all of my friends and generals and family were here, but there was one person who began to miss more than anything, and that was the man I had loved for over fifty years." He chuckled, although what he found funny Gilbert had no clue.

Nonetheless Gilbert found himself smiling. "I've missed you too," he said. "I had Ludwig to keep me company, and there were other great people, like Bismarck and Kaiser Wilhelm I, but they weren't you."

Frederick chuckled again, but this time it was fondly amused. "As selfish as this is going to sound, I'm rather glad that you didn't go and replace me with someone else. Ludwig doesn't count."

Gilbert laughed with him, and to his amazement his tears seemed to be receding. How was it that Fritz could make him feel better with just a few words? That was another thing that he had missed. "No one could replace you," he said softly. Suddenly Fritz pulled away from him and for a moment Gilbert was confused, but then soft lips met his own in a tender kiss. He smiled and let his eyes slide closed, basking in the warmth and love that had been deprived of for so many years.

Prussia was dead. But that was okay, because he had his beloved Fritz with him as well.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Gaaah ohmygawds these two ;w; I have an odd event in my headcanon, where Gilbert actually does die shortly after the Berlin Wall comes down. More specifically, when GDR switched its economy and money units to West Germany's. I know that sounds somewhat ridiculous, but around that point I think that he was so weak that losing his economy was the final blow to him, and he got very sick and died later. He still had his name nad his people (to a certain extent) but they just weren't enough to sustain him anymore. However he comes back when the countries are unified and becomes the eastern half of Germany, just like North and South Italy deal. You see how complicated my headcanon is sometimes? xP**


	16. Death

**A/N: Actually I meant to post this on my birthday (the 15th) but since I'm stupid and somewhat slow this s a bit late...and I forgot. You may hit me XD**

**Buuuut, to make up for it I have finally typed up KATTE'S EXECUTION! *cackles evilly***

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><p><strong>Death<strong>

He felt the blood drain out of his face, causing the world to tilt sickeningly. He could not have possibly heard those words correctly, it was unthinkable. His mouth suddenly felt bone-dry and no amount of swallowing could alleviate it. "My—My King," he said, stammering in front of his ruler for the first time in his life.

"Don't start with me," Frederick William growled, "unless _you _want to be tried for treason as well." He thumped his new cane against the floor to punctuate his next words. "I know damn well that you are not hard of hearing, and you know perfectly well what I mean. You have your orders, go carry them out."

"My King, please!" Prussia begged, feeling his innards twist up in horror. He automatically took as step forward, then paused, fearing the cane. "My King, I can't," he breathed out, trying to hide his shaking hands.

"Can't?" Frederick William shouted, his voice like the crack of a whip. "Your arms work, you can wield a sword, it's not a matter of you _can't _do it, you simply refuse to!" He stomped forward until he was almost face to face with him, his head craned back so his gray eyes could glare at him. "Already I am surrounded by deceit and treachery, from my own family no less. I will _not _have it coming from you as well."

Gilbert did not flinch away from him, and he was the only person that would. He tensed slightly, ready to duck if his King swung for him. He was no Fritz, he could not be bullied and pushed around like Frederick William did to his son. "My King, you do not know what a—"

"I don't care to know," Frederick William cut him off. "I care that you follow my orders!"

"Please!" he tried to beg again. "Why can't you just get a common executioner to do it? There are plenty of them!"

"Because I want _you _to do it!" Frederick William roared, the vein in his jaw pulsing like it always did when he was getting angry. "I want you to execute Lieutenant von Katte and I want Frederick to _watch _you do it! That is my order!"

Order. He had to say that, didn't he? He gasped and stiffened as every muscle in his body locked up, freezing him in place. He felt as if he had just been punched in the stomach, although his spine straightened until his was standing ramrod straight as if he was at attention. All at once he felt as if there were chains around him, holding him in place so he couldn't run. Gods, that one word that robbed him of his will.

Frederick William obviously noticing the change, and he took a step back so that he could view his nation better. "Prussia," he said in a voice that was like a blacksmith's hammer striking an anvil. "I order you to leave for Küstrin tonight," he watched as Prussia flinched again, as if the words were blows. "I order you to head directly _to _Küstrin. And, most importantly, I order you to execute Lieutenant Hans Hermann von Katte by beheading with a sword. That sword." He pointed at the longsword that was buckled around Gilbert's waist. "This is the command of your King, Gilbert. Don't you dare disobey."

The pale man swallowed, feeling as if something had just grabbed him by the back of the neck like a dog catching its prey. His limbs tingled and he wanted to run, to get up and start heading to Küstrin, either by foot or horse or whatever the hell could take him. Yet he wanted to protest, to explain to his King why he did not want to go, but the words would not come. He had them in his chest, but no matter how hard he wished they would not come to his lips. A monarch had total control over the lands and people they ruled, and as a consequence the humanized form of the country, like Gilbert, had to obey every single thing their ruler told them to do, whether they wanted to or not. His body simply would not _let _him disobey. "I—" he said, almost stammering again. The chains tightened and he wanted to throw himself out the window so he could start making his way to Küstrin. "Y-yes, My King," he said at last, finally bowing to the force that was greater than his own.

* * *

><p>Normally a ride through his country would have pleased him beyond belief, giving him a chance to look upon his awesome lands and feel his people around him. He loved to walk among them and actually be with them instead of watching afar from a palace in Berlin. However, the only thing he was feeling right now was nauseous. The very thought of what he had to do in the near future was making his insides knot up. He hardly dared to eat because he was afraid that his stomach might rebel and throw it back up; even water was something that he was careful with. Despite this, he had refused to take a carriage. He was certainly entitled to one because of his rank, but anyone who decided to ride around in a box on wheels instead of actually riding a horse was unawesome, in his opinion. Of course if you were too sick or injured to ride then that was a different story, but his awesome self was definitely not ill enough for that! So he had simply saddled his horse, despite all of his servants protesting that he looked rather ill, and started off before the sun even set, as were his orders.<p>

From what he heard he was supposed to have a guard, also because of his rank, but he was having absolutely none of that and rode out of the city before the orders had even reached them. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts, and the chattering of a bunch of clueless cavalrymen would have irritated him. Perhaps being alone wasn't the most awesome thing, since it made his thoughts revolve around the same subjects over and over and make his sickness even worse, but it was far better than company. He was in no mood to talk to anyone.

Execute Katte? Goddammit, that wasn't right! It wasn't as if he was not used to beheading people (he had done it far too many times in the distant past) but to execute one of his own… He had known Katte for as long as Fritz had, and the man was a good friend of his. Why did _he _have to execute him? Why was Frederick William so specific about it? And why couldn't he just listen to what his nation had to say first? Usually he was good with taking advice from his country, but whenever he became angry he was totally unreasonable.

"_I want you to execute Lieutenant von Katte and I watch Frederick to _watch _you do it!" _His King's words rang in his ears again, as if they have followed him from Berlin to make sure that he was staying on task. Make Fritz watch his lover get beheaded right before his eyes? Sometimes Frederick William's cruelty astounded him.

A cold sweat suddenly broke out on his head as a new, terrifying possibility came to him. His ruler was trying to isolate Fritz from all of his friends, and anyone who had helped him was already suffering the royal wrath. Keith was imprisoned at Spandau, Knyphausen had all of his honors stripped from him, Lieutenants von Spaen and von Ingersleben were facing court martial, and poor, innocent Elizabeth Ritter had been publically whipped and also sent to Spandau. Katte was soon to face the ultimate price, but Gilbert knew that he was also a target. Fritz trusted him, and it was no secret that he was far fonder of the prince than his father, and he was always the one that Fritz turned to if he ever needed any real help. What better way to break that trust than to have him kill Katte with Frederick watching?

He was so shocked that he almost fell off his horse. Oh gods, it was so perfect. Fritz would hate him. Killing two birds with one stone, possibly even three if Fritz was broken by the spectacle and would obey everything his father said for fear of him being next. Each second that passed solidified his idea, and he couldn't think of any better reason to have him go to Küstrin. He breathed out, trying to calm himself, but it wasn't helping out at all. He was trapped, trapped like a bird inside of a cage and he could do absolutely nothing to fight it and was going to have to kill one of his friends and Fritz would _hate _him forever—

He felt himself sliding and grabbed the pommel of his saddle to keep him from falling off. _"Verdammt," _he growled out weakly, rubbing his forehead with one hand. He still felt sick to his stomach, and he could barely think with his head in a whirl like this. There was an inn up the road, one that he knew well, and if he planned to get to Küstrin without injuring himself then he might as well stop for a while.

* * *

><p>He ended up staying for the night. Not that he got any sleep at all, despite the fact that he had the mother of all headaches forming in the back of his head. The idea of what he had to do, what he was <em>going <em>to do, kept him wide awake. He ate a few bites of the food they brought up to him, but only because he didn't want his stomach growling and bothering him. Over and over again he paced his room, trying to think of any way that he could possibly get himself out of the situation he was in, but centuries of experience told him that it was useless. His King had given him a direct order, and could not disobey it.

He _had _to go to Küstrin. He _had _to behead Katte using his own knight's sword, which had killed so many before. Even now his limbs were still itching, restless and wanting to go somewhere. Go to Küstrin, because he knew from personal experience that if he tried to walk in any other direction then his legs would simply refuse to move until he turned back and headed to Küstrin. Sometimes it fucking sucked to be a nation that had to obey his Boss's every whim.

His pacing only made him antsier and by the time the very first light of morning started peeking over the horizon he was wound up tighter than a spring. He went stomping down the stairs the moment he heard people moving around, startling the life out of the landlord as he appeared in full dress uniform, paid for his room, and then left without even eating breakfast. The odd tingling feeling in his limbs that was subtly tugging him in the direction of Küstrin like he was a dog on a leash was driving him out of his mind and he wanted to get to the town _right now _so it could just go away. Screw the fact that it was still nearly forty miles away, all of his horses were fit and Friesians were good in endurance anyway. He spent most of the day galloping down the roads and he was sure he made quite an awesome sight, but he never stopped to talk to any of the peasants and only slowed down for little breaks so he wouldn't run his poor horse into the ground.

He rode into the town at nightfall, surprising the hell out of the general and the rest of the garrison stationed there, since they had not expected to see him for a few days. Nonetheless they rushed to accommodate him, but he politely declined all the dinner invitations that were given to him; he was in no mood to eat or talk. He had arrived at Küstrin, which had taken the odd tugging feeling away, but now he had to stay here and play executioner to one of his own _people. _He wasn't in the mood for anything at the moment.

"Sir?" One of the guards to the fortress stopped him as he was stomping off to his quarters after he put his poor horse into the stables. "Lieutenant von Katte arrived earlier today, and he is imprisoned in the fortress now. Would you like to see him, or the Crown Prince?"

What? He was already there? "No," Gilbert snapped, turning on his heel and leaving without another word. Gods, Katte was in Küstrin already

His execution would be tomorrow.

* * *

><p>Two sleepless nights in a row really wasn't a good thing for his awesome looks. There were dark circles under his eyes and hollows in his cheeks, and he looked paler than before. That still didn't stop him from standing tall and straight in the courtyard of Küstrin, sword held loosely in one hand, waiting for the condemned to show up. He stared at his reflection in the blade as he waited, taking in his features and trying to see past his guarded eyes. A great calm seemed to have come over him, as if something had been burned out of him last night, like taking the impurities out of metal so it could be refined. It made his face almost unreadable and a coldness had stolen over him, leaving him almost unnaturally calm. He sighed and let his eyes travel upwards, gazing at the cell window above his head. He had not gone to see Fritz and had so far heard nothing out of him.<p>

The clock struck five, tolling solemnly over the compound. The early morning light had turned everything an almost bluish color and already there was a light blanket of mist rising from the marshes of the Oder. It made the air heavy and thick with the smell of mud and wet vegetation. Right as the bell ended he heard footsteps and two soldiers appeared, leading Katte between them, with two chaplains following close behind. The sudden sight of the youth made his chest tighten. He looked so calm, so reserved…

Katte walked free, no chains binding him at all. His hat was tucked under one arm and the other hung loosely at his side. His face was serene, his posture full of dignity, his steps slow and untroubled as if the two guards and mumbling chaplains weren't even there. His tranquility was slightly disturbed when he looked up and noticed Prussia standing there. Gilbert saw his thick eyebrows arch in confusion, then he saw the sword in Gilbert's hand. To Gilbert's infinite surprise, Katte _smiled, _and a gentle resignation seemed to emanate from him. The country felt himself tense.

_I don't want to do this, _he thought to himself, biting his lip harshly. His façade was already starting to crack. He wanted to do nothing but sheath his sword and walk away, but his King's order was still holding him in place, and his legs refused to move. Katte's simple acceptance struck a chord within him, and it pained him to see one of his soldiers, so young, walk so bravely ad calmly to his own death.

"What is he doing here?"

He barely heard the voice, but he recognized it instantly and looked up, seeing Fritz's pale blur of a face pressed against his barred window. He watched Katte as the procession passed under his window, and when he started to look around Gilbert felt his eyes land on him. Gilbert couldn't see his features from the distance he was at, but he could easily imagine the absolute horror that must have crossed Fritz's face when he realized what was going on. He heard the prince again, and from the few words he could pick up it sounded as if Fritz was begging to speak to the general of the fortress, presumably so he could get him to stay the execution. The poor thing, Gilbert knew that the guards were under strict orders to not even talk to him.

He had to look away, but the moment he did Katte looked up. The soldier followed where Prussia's gaze had been resting on the window just as Frederick reappeared. For a moment there was silence, then Fritz touched his hand to his lips. "My dear Katte, a thousand pardons, please." He called out in perfect French.

Katte smiled and used his free hand to salute him, still walking all the while. "My prince, there is nothing to apologize for," he called back in the same language. There was no sorrow in his voice and hardly any emotion at all. "To die for such a sweet prince is an honor," he added as he turned away.

Oh, they were making this too hard. It was like some scene right out of a tragic play. Prussia heard whispers among the other officers, but he did not listen and gripped his sword tighter to stop his hands from shaking. The blood was pounding in his ears and each beat of his heart literally hurt. The grim procession carried on, coming up the raised platform that Gilbert and the officers of the fortress were standing on. It was built on one of the bastions an overlooked the river; all in all, it wasn't one of the worst places to die. Finally they stopped by a little heap of sand that hand been placed there so that cleaning up the blood would be easier.

One of the officers began intoning the death sentence, but no one was really listening to him. Katte had his eyes fixed on him and Gilbert stared back, trying to let the soldier see his thoughts on his face. _I'm so sorry. I didn't want this. _He tried to make his eyes say that, and from the change in Katte's expression he read the wordless apology just fine. His features softened even more and he gave him a reassuring smile. What the hell was he assuring _him _for? Prussia wasn't the one getting executed! When the officer finished reading Katte held out his hand. For a moment Gilbert stared at it dumbly. Shaking hands with your executioner before he killed you? Well if that wasn't the most ironic thing…

He grasped Katte's hand firmly in his own. Katte had always had a firm grip, but the way his fingers clenched almost convulsively around his was more than a little painful. Even through his gloves Prussia could feel that Katte's hands were freezing, like blocks of ice, Katte didn't seem to notice and leaned forward so that he could speak without being overheard. "And it is an honor to die by the hand of my own nation," he said, his voice the merest breath of a whisper. Then he pulled away and shook hands with the other officers, leaving Gilbert feeling as if he had just been struck over the head with something. That stupid, patriotic _sap. _He never ceased to amaze him.

Calmly, Katte removed his wig and handed it off, allowing his dark hair to be free from its confinements. With steady fingers he unbuttoned his shirt collar and knelt down, as nonchalant as if he were seating himself at a dinner table. _Oh you poor, brave thing… _Katte clasped his hands together and began to pray. "Lord Jesus—" he began, but was quickly interrupted by an attendant trying to blindfold him. He pushed it away with an irritated look and, eyes open, started again. "Lord Jesus…"

It was too much. Far, far too much. As quick as a flash Prussia's hands shot up, lifting his sword over his head so that it glittered in the light. The weight of it was comfortingly familiar, and he had wielded it for so long that his body automatically began to shift so that there would be as much force behind the blow as possible. Time seemed to slow for a moment, and he watched the blade come down, making a slight hum in the air as it did. His tendons and joints popped as his muscles strained to put more effort into the blow, to make his arms move faster and his fingers grip harder and his feet dig into the ground more. A part of him knew that he didn't need to try so hard though. He wanted to close his eyes so he didn't have to watch, but he needed to keep them open so that he wouldn't miss.

But then again, he probably didn't have to try so hard with that either. He never missed.

The blade went through Katte's neck surprisingly easy. There was only a slight bit of resistance as the spine was severed, but then it continued on, slicing through veins and muscle and skin as neatly as any butcher's knife. A jet of blood exploded into the air as Katte's head fell from his body and rolled across the sand, his eyes still staring. His body followed a moment later, thumping bonelessly to the ground. All was silent for a long, agonizing moment, then Katte's body started to _twitch, _the muscles of his limbs spasming in little convulsions that was like a sick parody of life. Gilbert had to look away; he had seen death before and had brought it many times, but this one was far too personal. Almost on their own accord, his eyes were drawn to Frederick's window.

It was empty.

People started to crowd around the body, and he quickly sheathed his sword and left, trying to walk as fast as possible without actually running. He fled—yes, the awesome Prussia _fled—_the scene, ignoring the calls behind him. He banged open the door to the fortress and broke into a full sprint the moment he was out of sight. _He's dead, oh gods he's _dead _one of my own people is dead because of me—_ the pain hit him then, almost making him trip and smash himself across the floor. He only managed to save himself by grabbing onto the handle of a nearby door for support, and it swung open to reveal an empty room. He didn't bother to see what kind of room it was, the only thing he saw was the window, which he immediately ran to and opened.

The pain smashed into him again and it felt as if his insides were literally being twisted together like spaghetti on a fork. His back arched from the pain and he vomited, emptying his stomach of what little contents it had. The acid burned his throat and made him cough and he sagged against the sill for support. Images of the sword going through Katte's neck over and over again flashed through his mind, reminding him of just how easy it had been to kill him. He convulsed and dry heaved against the window, feeling the world start to tilt from all of the pain. What had he _done? _Katte had been one of his people, a _Prussian _and he had just killed a part of _himself _what was wrong with him?

He gasped and choked on a cry as his neck burned as if a red hot chain had just been drawn around it. In his mind he could see the sword slicing through Katte's neck, but he could feel it happening to him as well. It was not a quick, painless death as Katte's had been, but a burning and tearing agony that made it feel like someone was trying to saw through his neck with a sharpened rock or something equally primitive. He clawed at his throat, practically feeling his spine snap and his veins burst even though nothing physical was actually happening to him. Another wave of pain hit him and for the moment the world turned gray, wavering a little on the edges. When it cleared he found himself slumped across the windowsill, almost on his knees. Somewhere behind him, he heard a door open.

"General Beilschmidt?" A timid voice asked. "Are you alright, General? We—"

He felt his face heat up and he burned, but this time with humiliation. To be caught like this, in such a pathetic and vulnerable state, made his anger flare up like a torch. He leaped to his feet and grabbed the nearest thing he could reach, which was some sort of decoration set on a desk. "Get _OUT!" _He roared, throwing it as hard as he could, his voice choked by tears and agony.

The attendant yelped and fled as if he had just been confronted with the demon straight from Hell. The door slammed shut an instant before the object crashed into it, shattering into hundreds of little pieces that flew across every corner of the room. Gilbert had little time to revel in his victory, because the pain came again in another wave of crippling anguish that made his legs collapse underneath him. He tried to fight down the bile in his throat as he writhed against the floor, feeling his neck being torn apart and his guts corkscrew on themselves until he just wanted to crawl off into a corner and die so that he could be free from the pain. _Katte, _he thought, tears of pain and grief falling from his eyes. _My soldier, my people. _He was left on the floor, twitching and trembling as the sun rose to herald the beginning of a new day in the Kingdom of Prussia.

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><p><strong>AN: My headcanon has Gilbert being the one actually killing Katte, and this is the exact reason why. FW being his usual cruel/sneaky self. Actually there are a lot of headcanon quirks of mine in this story, more than any other I've ever seen in the previous ones. For example about a country and their Boss...since absolute monarchs could basically control everything in this time period, that had me reasoning that because they controlled every part of their country then the humanized forms had to obey every direct command given to them by their ruler because that was just how things worked out. It turns into a whole psychological mindfuck/somewhat physical restraining if they try to disobey until they're forced to do what their told.  
>Another headcanon of mine is that a country killing one of their own people is one of the most painful and torturous experiences they could ever go through. Since they're made up of their people then they're actually killing themselves, in a sense, so the pain comes back to them but so much worse. Having your people killed by someone else is a different story.<br>I dunno why my headcanon Katte turned into this sort of noble-ish person. He's odd like that XD But reading his death and how it faced it so calmly always gets to me, and I tried to be as accurate as possible with it. As for Katte's last lines...my biography said that he told Fritz that there was nothing to apologize for, but I've also heard many sources tell me that he said that dying for such a sweet prince was an honor. I was more inclined to my biography info, but that second line was so absolutely sweet that I included it anyway XD **


	17. Answer

**A/N: I'm sorry, this is a messed up chapter. I'm serious, if you don't like Prussia getting almost molested by Russia or anything of that nature then most definitely do not read this.**

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><p><strong>Answer<strong>

Not good. Oh no, this was not good at all.

"Lieutenant General!" an aide standing near him called over the din. "They're about to break through the wall, General!"

"I can see that," Seydlitz replied, trying not to snap at him. He drummed the fingers of his good hand against the fortifications that they had thrown together, peering down at the Russians below. One hour, all they needed was one hour and they might have been able to repulse the invaders for a second time. But the Austrians were coming to reinforce their allies as soon as possible, and he knew perhaps more than anybody that their meager garrison and the volunteer forces they had rounded up would be no match for the combined forces of their enemies. Berlin would fall. The cavalry officer gritted his teeth in frustration, watching the Cossacks pile up, trying to break through their forces by sheer numbers.

"Lieutenant General Seydlitz!" another voice called, catching his attention. A messenger was fighting his way through the mass of Prussians on top of the wall, shoving people aside in order to get to him. "A message from General Knobloch," the soldier panted out when he came to a stop.

Seydlitz turned to him, ignoring the feeling in his gut that was telling him that the news weren't good. "Well? Let's hear it," he said.

The messenger stood straighter and carefully recited his message. "General Knobloch is being pushed back by the Russians, and he reports that he has no more men in reserve. He wants to order a retreat, and begs that Lieutenant General Seydlitz will do the same."

He felt his stomach drop. A retreat? Run away and leave their capital in the hands of the enemy? The thought of it! "What does Field Marshal Lewald say?" he demanded, praying that the third member of their little pseudo-Triumvirate would oppose it.

The man's uneasy expression told him everything. "Field Marshal Lewald agrees," he spoke haltingly. "He has already sent out orders for his troops to draw back. He suggests that Generals Knobloch and Seydlitz head to Spandau as a rendezvous."

Seydlitz gritted his teeth and looked back down at the melee below him. The Cossacks may have been crazy and barbaric, but they seemed to have no fear at all as they launched themselves heedlessly at the cannons the Prussians had dragged up. Even as he watched one of their artillerymen was felled by a saber thrusting between his ribs, and then the Cossacks swarmed over the rest of the crew in the distraction. That was one cannons lost. Soon they would lose the rest of them. Seydlitz's good hand curled into a fist and his body trembled with anger.

Dammit. Goddammit all to hell.

"Start a retreat," he snapped, forcing the words past his throat. "A general withdraw to the fortress Spandau. We can't hold them off any longer."

There was a shocked pause at his words, and his aides glanced at him in disbelief. A moment later a grim resignation seemed to come over them, since it was easy to tell that the battle was lost anyway. Wordlessly, they saluted and then ran off to spread the command. Seydlitz didn't turn to see them leave, his gaze still riveted on the fight below. He felt like an utter failure. How could he, the greatest cavalry general in the entire Prussian army, have failed to protect their precious capital? A bullet whooshed by his head, but he barely noticed it. There weren't even that many Russians, and if he just had a little more time… His eyes flickered across the people below him as if looking for something, but for what he had no clue.

He did find something though, and it made his blood run cold.

It was his size that stood out most, towering over the others with his huge frame. That was probably why Seydlitz's eyes had stopped on him in the first place, to get a better look. Then the rest of the man's appearance came to him; his fair hair, pale skin, the Russian uniform that, by its design, marked him as a Field Marshal. Why would a man of such rank be out in the middle of this bloodbath? He then noticed the pale pink scarf that was tied around the man's neck, and everything slid smoothly into place. He knew that man, or rather, that country. He had _seen _him during the Battle of Kunersdorf, and just what he had seen sent a thrill of fear to him.

He remembered Gilbert's screams of agony, a sound that he knew he would never forget in his entire life. He remembered watching as the giant country (Russia, his mind corrected) pinned their nation down and started to hack at him as if he was a piece of raw beef. The general swallowed and pushed the images out of his mind, staring at the country that his world had suddenly narrowed down to. No wonder why they were losing, they were fighting the actual embodiment of Russia! This was the same person that had picked up one of their artillery cannons and had thrown it at Gilbert as if it weighed no more than a toy, a bunch of regular Prussians were no match at all for him. Indeed he was in the middle of the fray, swinging his saber and knocking his enemies aside as if they were pins.

Seydlitz swore to himself, his anger flaring. This wasn't even a fair fight! What gave that damn country the right to waltz away from his main army and attack Berlin? Suddenly he wished that he had a rifle, so that he might shoot it at the man's head. He did provide an easy target after all. But then again you couldn't kill a country, as Gilbert himself had proved innumerable times. Now he was starting to see how truly frustrating that was.

He watched as Russia leaped easily on top of one of the captured cannons, his head swiveling left and right as he survey the new area. And then, as if sensing the stare, he looked up and immediately locked gazes with Seydlitz.

He swore again, but he didn't look away. Even at the distance they were at, his could tell that Russia's eyes were an unnatural shade of violet. A chill worked its way through his limbs, as if something had just reached out and touched him, as if the nation's gaze was something tangible. The seconds ticked by as they stared at each other, two commanders on the opposite sides of battle, sizing up their enemy. Seydlitz tried not to let his unease show, but there was something truly unnerving about Russia, and this was coming from the horseman who would ride between the sails of a windmill for fun; he was _never _uneasy about anything. As the bullets fired and swords clashed, Russia stood above it all like a statue. Then, suddenly, he smiled, his lips stretching into a wide grin, but there was nothing kind or warm about that smile. It was the same smile he saw at Kunersdorf, the sadistic one that looked as if a knife had carved it into his face. The Russian man saluted the general with his sword, and then he jumped down from the wall and disappeared.

Seydlitz swallowed, for a moment standing completely still, staring at the empty space that the country had left behind. He knew that twisted look well; he had just been singled out among all of the Prussians. He turned and made his way down the stairs, calling for his horse. It was certainly time to leave now, he had no intention of staying behind and waiting for the country to find him.

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><p>Prussia was literally shaking with rage as he rode through the streets of his capital, gazing at his people who were all fleeing into their homes. It would do no good though, he could feel the Russians inside his city, inside of his heart. It felt like a corruption, as if the blood inside of his heart had been poisoned with something. He felt disgusted and tainted and the damage these assholes were doing to his beautiful city was fanning the flames of his anger with every passing second. Austrians, Saxons, Russians, he didn't care who the hell they were, if he saw any of them they were fucking dead. End of story.<p>

He coughed suddenly and he felt a glob of blood roll down his chin. With a bloodstained handkerchief he wiped it away, ignoring the slight tremble in his hand. He had been doing that for days now, ever since his enemies had drawn close to his capital and started burning the lands and villages all around it. His chest still ached from the blisters and raw wounds it suffered, and the tight bandages wrapped around it made almost every movement scratched them bloody again. It hurt, but he barely registered the pain in the face of his anger.

The kingdom gripped the reins of his horse tighter, urging it down an empty street that would take them near the gates leading to Köpenick, where the fighting had begun and was spreading into Berlin. The Russians were in and the Austrians and Saxons were not too far behind them, and he could feel one person's presence like a little thorn winding its way around his heart. A country could always sense when one of their brethren crossed into their lands, but to have one inside of their capital, the place that the rest of the country revolved around, was something completely different. He snarled to himself and drew his pistol, shooting at a Cossack that had suddenly run out from an alley. _Nice try, bitch! _He thought as the man fell. It wasn't Ivan, unfortunately, but it was one less Russian that his people had to deal with. Oh what he would give to see Ivan right now, he needed to rip his guts out, preferably while the man was still alive.

The sound of battle was growing louder, and the pains from his people dying were becoming sharper. He ducked into the alley that the Cossack had just come out of, urging Wink into a trot. His soldiers were just ahead, and so was Russia. He gritted his teeth against the revolting sensation and tried not to claw at his chest, knowing that he couldn't get rid of it not matter what he did. He just had to deal with it and kick Ivan's ass all the way back to Siberia. He cursed at the alley for being so narrow, since it prevented him from drawing his sword inside of it, and now he was about to go towards a fight without a weapon. The other pistol soon left its holster and he cocked it back, carefully aiming it as he stepped out of the alley.

Luckily for him, most of the fighting seemed to be concentrated at the gates towards Köpenick, so no one really took much notice of them as they were too busy trying to stop the rest of the Russians coming through. Some had already broken through and the surrounding area was filled with small, isolated battles and duels going on, but none immediately near him. Gilbert quickly put his pistol back and unsheathed his sword instead, holding it loosely in one hand as he turned Wink away from the gates and rode off. He wished he could help his people, but Russia was not at the gates, he was somewhere deeper in the city. He galloped down the empty street, skirting an overturned cart and a group of Prussians who were in the middle of retreating. They yelled and jumped out of the way as he raced by and turned down another street, following his instincts like a dog scenting blood.

The farther he went into his city the more his anger grew. He could barely think of anything else other than finding his enemy and beating him to a bloody pulp. He would never in a thousand years have wanted Russia to set foot anywhere near his lands or his people, and here he was in his capital! It made his blood almost literally boil and he started forget all of his pain, and the blood flowing from his wounds suddenly didn't seem so important as if had before. The streets passed by as a blur and he only slowed down when he heard the shouting of Cossacks. Goddammit they better not be looting or else he rip their guts out and hang them with it and leave the crows to eat their flesh.

"Well, General," he heard Russia's pleasant, almost singsonged voice carry across the air. "It's a pleasure to meet you again."

Wait, what?

He turned the corner and almost felt his eyes pop out of his head. He immediately recognized Russia among his Cossacks, but it was Seydlitz and his own small band of soldiers that made his jaw drop in shock. Oh of _course, _why had he forgotten that the general was in Berlin?

Russia made a gesture to his troops. "Take the general prisoner," he ordered, his polite tone never changing. Immediately the Russians leaped into action, charging at the smaller group with a cry. A few shots were fired but then it dissolved into swordfights on horseback, and even though Seydlitz's arm was in a sling he was fighting with one hand, reins forgotten.

Take his best cavalry general (and his friend, no less) as a prisoner? Oh _hell _to the fucking no! With barely a more complicated thought than that he spurred his horse into action, galloping head-on towards the melee. Wink almost literally plowed into the horses, brutally shoving them aside and nipping at the nearest ones like she had been trained to do. While the riders were thrown into distraction he swung his sword, easily cleaving through one Russian and then turning and striking another. His sudden appearance had thrown everyone into complete disarray and both sides retreated to see who he was. He planted himself in front of Seydlitz and his soldiers, a clear barrier between the two.

"Gilbert!" he heard Seydlitz gasp, the pure shock in his voice making him forget his official title.

Russia blinked at him, as if he was trying to see if he was really there, then he laughed. "_Prussiyah," _he purred out, deliberately twisting his name with that sickening accent of his. "I thought I sensed you nearby. It was nice of you to finally visit."

Visit? As if this wasn't his own goddamned country that he was in? "Get the fuck out," he snarled, just stopping himself from shouting.

"That's not nice, Gilbert," Russia said sweetly. "We just got here, it's only polite to offer us a place to stay first."

"I don't have to offer you shit," he spat back, tightening his grip on his sword. He turned a little so he could view Seydlitz out of the corner of his eyes. "Run Seydlitz," he said.

He saw Seydlitz sit up. "Field Marshal Beilschmidt, I can't—"

"Do not make me order you Lieutenant General!" he yelled, turning around fully to glare at him. "Now go!"

Normally Seydlitz would have said something about that, since they always bantered back and forth about orders, but this time was different. Seydlitz almost flinched at the shout, but he knew suddenly that he had to obey the order, he wanted, no, he _needed _to. Without another sound he wheeled his horse around and rode off, his soldiers following him.

Ivan watched them go, his expression never wavering from that faint, almost dreamy smile. "Go after them," he said after a moment.

Prussia raised his sword. "Try me," he said. Oh he prayed that one of them would be dumb enough to step forward. He was begging for it.

For a moment they hesitated, unsure of whether he was being serious, but then they charged again, obviously believing that their superior numbers would be enough to quickly overcome him. Before they could reach him he pivoted and swung his sword, slashing across a Cossack's chest and making him tumble off his horse with a scream. He turned and used the rest of his blow to strike another Russian who was trying to hit him while he was distracted. He knew they were surrounding him, and he drew his remaining pistol and quickly fired, hitting a rider in the middle of his chest. Gilbert smirked and glanced at Ivan challengingly. _Watch me, _his blood red eyes said, _I'm going to kill every single one of your people right in front of your eyes. What are you going to do about it? _Even as wounded as he was, Prussia could have still taken out all of the Cossacks around him; he was far more skilled and his sword had a much longer reach than their sabers.

"Enough!" Russia yelled, his smile gone. He came forward, his violet eyes hard and angry. "Go after General Seydlitz. I will take care of the Field Marshal."

The two countries glared at each other as the rest of the Cossacks rode off at full gallop, leaving their injured and dead comrades behind in their eagerness to get away from the mad Prussian. Gilbert did not attempt to stop them, he knew that Seydlitz had gotten a good headstart and he'd be damned if anyone could catch that man on horseback. Russia seemed to be staring right through him just like Fritz could, but there was a perverse difference between the two. Fritz seemed to be able to just look at someone and read them like an open book, but Russia forced his way into your head and pried out your secrets like he was opening a clam to get at the pearl inside. Gilbert tried not to look away and show how uneasy the gaze made him, but to him there had always been something unearthly and _off _about Russia's eyes and it rose the hairs along his body to look at them for too long. Now he knew how some people felt when they looked at _him. _

"You aren't looking too well Gilbert," Russia said at last, his horse coming forward a few steps. "Have these past few weeks been a little hard on you?" He sounded polite and amiable, like he was a good friend inquiring about the health of another.

"Come closer and you'll find out," Gilbert replied.

Russia chuckled good-naturedly, his smile returning. "Well, your appearance here is rather unexpected, but I can deal with that," he said. For a moment he was silent, but then he drove his spurs into his horse and galloped towards him, swinging his saber.

Gilbert barely had time to raise his own sword and block the blow, and the shock of the hit went down his entire arm. Russia's blade slid along his with a metallic hiss until it was caught in the crossguards, and then it was a battle of strength as they both shoved against each other. To Gilbert's alarm and disgust, he was losing. Of course Russia had always been the most physically powerful out of all of the nations, but Prussia had always been very strong himself and the frightening weakness in his arm was more than a little frightening. Thankfully they broke apart a few seconds later and then they were slashing and parrying and thrusting while their horses pranced around each other nervously. Gilbert could feel his strength failing him, but he was the awesome Prussia and he was the best swordfighter out of all the nations and he would not give Ivan the satisfaction of seeing him grow weak.

But the larger country looked as if he was quickly growing tired of their duel. When another one of his swings was blocked he made a disgusted noise and stepped back. He suddenly dismounted, all but jumping off of his horse, and ran at him. Before Gilbert could make Wink run there were two large and rough hands gripping at him like iron and he was literally _dragged _out of his saddle. He tried to fight back but Russia threw him onto the street, causing a cry to escape him as his already abused body smashed against the hard stone. The force of it stunned him for a brief moment, and Russia took that time to kick his sword out of his hand and grab him by the collar, dragging him to his feet while his stunned mind was still trying to reorganize itself.

He was forced to stumble after Russia as he moved, half-dragging, half-pulling him into an alley. Gilbert turned and swung his fist out, but his wrist was easily caught. He was slammed up against a wall, the force if it driving the breath from his lungs, and Ivan leaned in close, his eyes dark and ugly. "Why are you here, Gilbert?" he asked, his voice low and serious. "You are supposed to be with your King and the main body of your army. What are you doing all the way in Berlin?"

"It's my _capital city _you fucking asshole of course I'm going to be here!" Gilbert yelled back and tried vainly to twist out of his grip.

"Not good enough," Russia said, leaning even closer. "Your dear Frederick is supposed to be opposing Marshal Daun somewhere near Schweidnitz. Why are you here? Is he coming?" The grip around him tightened.

He clenched his jaw shut, refusing to answer. Yes, Fritz was indeed heading for Berlin, but he was nowhere near the city. Gilbert had known long before anyone that Berlin was going to be attacked, sensing the armies approaching it, and he had ridden off without even telling anyone. The army was days behind him, but he wasn't about to tell Ivan that.

"Answer me Gilbert," Russia said, his voice a low murmur. "Where is your King?"

His nervousness was understandable. After all, nations could only sense their own people once they stepped onto someone else's land, so Russia was all but blind here. For all he knew Frederick was about to come busting down the gates to the city with his entire army right behind him and he would never know because he could only sense his own Russians while he was in this country. Gilbert smirked at him. "Go fuck yourself," the pale man said.

Russia's eyes narrowed. "That's not the right answer," he said calmly, slamming him back into the wall and making red spots flash across his vision. Gilbert cursed out something and clawed at the fingers around his collar, but to no avail. "I'm disappointed, Gilbert," Russia said after watching him struggle for a few moments. "Usually you fight a lot more than this. You must really be feeling under the weather if you're this easy to take out." It was hard to tell whether he actually sounded disappointed or not.

Prussia snarled out more curses at him and tried to punch him with his free hand, but Ivan seemed to be expecting it and grabbed him. With both of them in the Russian's grip he was helpless, and another yelp was torn out of his throat as Russia twisted his arms behind his back and shoved him again, trapping his arms between his back and the wall. He spat at his assailant, but froze completely when he felt a hand slipping into his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt. "What the _fuck _are you doing?" he yelled, trying to twists away from that hand.

Ivan was unperturbed by all the yelling and managed to hold him relatively still with one arm. "I would like to see the result of our handiwork. Those wounds must be quite a sight if they've reduced you to this." The last of his buttons were ripped off and Russia's eyes widened almost comically at the sight beneath the shirt. He whistled. "My, my," he said with a sickening smile stretching over his face. "Those really are something." He passed his hand lightly over the bandages and watched Prussia shiver as equal parts of disgust and pain washed over him. He lingered over each bloody spot and each uncovered wound, drawing his index over a row of splotches that were far too neat and deliberate to be from other battles going on somewhere else. "I remember those~" he said in delight. "They haven't healed since Kunersdorf? Those were just stab wounds, _Prussiyah." _Something truly dark was flickering across his face as his hand rested over Gilbert's heart, feeling the muscle beat faster. The skin over that area was still raw and bloody, covered with blisters that oozed a clear liquid that had had mingled with the blood and turned the bandages red a long time ago.

Gilbert squirmed and tried the jerk the Russian's hand off of him. "Get off!" he snarled, bringing his knee up and trying to drive it into his fellow country. They were too close however, and he ended up hitting Ivan's hip instead of his crotch. He heard a laugh and Ivan used the movement to step closer, placing himself between Gilbert legs so he couldn't kick him. Their bodies were mere breaths from each other and Gilbert had gone completely still, a look of horror coming to his eyes.

"It's very admirable that you still struggle, but it's becoming quite tiring," Russia said, his purple eyes drilling right through his head and into the soles of his feet. One of his fingers drew under a bandage and lifted it teasingly, exposing a wound that still had the ragged edges bleeding. "And look, you've already torn some of these open again. That's not a good habit, you have to keep the blood in your body, Gilbert."

"Let go," Prussia said, trying to sound angry but there was an edge of unease creeping into his voice.

"I will if you tell me where your King is."

"Never," Gilbert shot back, fisting his hands against the wall. He would rip Ivan limb from fucking limb if he even _thought _about going anywhere near his Fritz.

Ivan did not answer for a while, his eyes still roving slowly over his injuries and the attempts to cover all of them. He seemed to be thinking over something, his mouth pressing into a thin line as he pondered. "Is he a good king to you?" he asked suddenly, his tone curious and quiet.

What the hell? Gilbert narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, he is. A lot better than that bitch you call a czarina," he snapped out.

He saw Russia's jaw muscles tighten, but the arctic nation let the insult pass. "I remember seeing his face at Kunersdorf," he said slowly, carefully enunciating each word so Prussia would hear exactly what he had to say. "Every time I stabbed you, it was like I had stabbed him instead. He kept trying to send troops after us, you know. But every time they were beaten back, and he to watch helplessly as we fought." His hand paused, resting on a splotch of blood that was as large as his palm. "I can't remember the last time I saw someone look so pained." With a thoughtful hum he brought his hand up and grasped Gilbert's chin, forcing him to look up. "It makes me wonder just how close you are to your dear King, Gilbert," he said, his smile twisting cruelly.

He thought his heart would stop out of fear. Oh no, oh good gods no. "That's none of your damn business," he said, hoping that his voice sounded too shocked to show the horror that was underneath.

"On the contrary, I think it is," Ivan replied mildly. "Don't fret Gilbert, it happens to us all eventually." His thumb started to stroke his chin and Gilbert thrashed again, but the grip was firm. "No, I don't need to tell me that you're lovers. I can see it. That does create such a close bond." He used his free arm to keep him pinned to the wall as his hand went up to stroke his cheek. Gilbert tried to bite it and Ivan gripped his face harshly, his fingers digging painfully into his flesh. "That would explain why you two work so well on the battlefield. One to plan and one to attack, two halves of a perfect whole. Unfortunately that is bad for me and my allies, since it gives us so much trouble in all of our battles."

"You trying to make a point?" Gilbert snapped, holding back a noise of pain as his spine was pressed into the brick wall. Damn that Russian had a hard grip.

"Of course I am. Because of that understanding between you, it creates a most troublesome problem for us." Russia leaned down, pressing them so close together that Gilbert could feel the man's breath in his ear; it made him want to be sick. "It makes me wonder what would happen if that bond was broken." He didn't need to see Ivan to know that he was smiling.

His lungs stopped and he felt his stomach drop right into the soles of his feet. He could suddenly feel his heart _pounding _in his chest as if it was trying to break through his ribcage and he didn't know whether to run or just collapse right there. "Get off," he whispered, the words wavering slightly. "Get the fuck off of me, no don't you dare aaahhhh!" He yelled as Russia suddenly bit him on the neck, his teeth digging sharply into his skin while his arm pinned him in place and his hand jerked his head to the side to expose more of his skin. He kicked and thrashed but Ivan was too close for him to land a good hit. "Ivan, stop! Don't do this, don't you dare fucking do this you bastard I—" he nearly choked as Ivan's tongue came out and lapped at his neck, trailing wetly all the way up to his ear. He managed to jerk away and clamped his teeth together harshly, trying not to whimper. Oh gods he felt like he was going to throw up; that touch was _sickening._

Surprisingly, Russia stayed like that for a few moments, his breath tickling Gilbert's ear. "I'm sorry that the circumstances brought us to this," the large man said softly. "Normally I would have asked for your consent, but you must exploit whatever weakness your enemy has, no matter how dishonorable it may seem."

"That is the biggest load of bulls—" Prussia started to say when Ivan's hand suddenly tugged his head back could kiss him on the throat tenderly, almost as if they actually were lovers. He yelled and once more tried to escape because there was no way in the world he was just going to _stand _there and let that fucker do what he wanted, then Russia stepped back and kneed him solidly in the gut, making him cough painfully as the air was driven from him. Ivan took advantage of his open mouth to lean down and kiss him, plunging his tongue into him and exploring the depths of his mouth while his mind was still confused. A split second later he screamed and tried to clamp his teeth down so he could bite that tongue off, but Ivan managed to pull away just in time. "You sick FUCKER what the FUCK is wrong with you?" Gilbert shrieked, feeling his stomach heave as Ivan's taste lingered behind on his tongue. Ivan pressed his body against him, using his hips to pin him to the wall so both of his arms would be partially free. "No! Let me go! I swear to gods Ivan just—no stop! Let go!" A hand clamped over his mouth and the scent of leather invaded his nostrils. Russia's thumb pressed underneath his jaw and held it tightly closed so that he couldn't bite his fingers and the larger nation quickly peeled the other glove from his hand using his teeth.

Gilbert jerked as he felt the bare hand touch his stomach, fingers tracing wide circles on whatever skin wasn't covered up by bandages. He yelled at Ivan through his glove and then screamed as he felt the man's fingers digging harshly into one of his many wounds, the pain blasting through his brain and making the world tilt for a moment. "It's much better if you don't fight, Gilbert," Russia said, as if reminding him of a simple fact that he had forgotten. The pain had made his flesh sensitive and hot, and he flinched as Russia's hand moved upwards, fingertips gently brushing his side and tracing his ribs. He felt so sick and _wrong, _as if his skin was trying to crawl away from wherever Ivan touched like he was diseased or something. He gasped involuntarily as Russia's hand brushed over one of his sensitive spots, and he shouted again as Russia immediately noticed and started tracing circles around it, not only making a show about how he was in control, but mocking him by showing how slowly he did it.

"Does he touch you like this, Gilbert?" Ivan whispered into his ear. "Does your precious little King know every one of these spots?" His touch increased for a moment, making him gasp and flinch. "Are you thinking of him right now, wishing that he was the one doing this instead of me?"

He breathed in through his nose and closed his eyes, trying not to think about Fritz or anything related to him. He felt so ashamed with himself for allowing this to happen, for getting himself into this situation and the tried to imagine himself somewhere, _anywhere, _that was less of a hell than the one he was currently in. Tears threatened to fall as Russia's hand continued to explore, his body shaking from a combination of pain, disgust, and just the tiniest bit of pleasure that revolted him more than anything else. His eyes snapped open as Ivan's mouth latched onto him again and started to bite and suck, he screamed, not caring how muffled it was, and tried to move away but he could barely go anywhere. He couldn't stand the thought of that revolting man leaving a mark on him, claiming him and saying that he had indeed gotten this close to the awesome Prussia. His mind was screaming an endless stream of _No'_s as Russia hand moved down and gripped him by the hip, his thumb slipping into his breeches.

Fate truly had a fucked up sense of humor because, the irony of ironies, it was the goddamned battle that had drawn him to Berlin in the first place that saved him. Just as Russia straightened up there was a volley of gunfire and screaming, coming right from outside the alley. The sound was alarmingly loud and they both jumped and instinctively glanced up; the battle that was being fought by the gates had been relocated as the Prussians retreated further into their city, the Russians following close behind. There was a mass of blue and green in the street as different units fought each other, oblivious to the scene going on right in a nearby alley. Gilbert realized that this was his chance, Ivan was distracted and his grip had loosened on him some. He reared up and slammed his head right into that Russian's damn nose and there was a very satisfying crunch of breaking bone. Ivan reeled back, blood pouring from his nose and Gilbert writhed frantically, managing to free one of his arms and he punched Ivan in the face, feeling more bone break under his fist as his knuckles connected with the larger man's cheek. He finally managed to break free with that and he fled, running faster than he ever had in his life.

He burst out of the alley and clutched his clothes frantically over his bare chest, wanting to hide every bit of his skin from the prying eyes of the world. The other soldiers were too preoccupied with their own fights to notice him, and no one turned their head as he ran past, his head whipping back and forth as he scanned the area for Wink. Gods he hoped she hadn't run off, she had to be nearby. His sharp eyes spotted a black horse at the very end of the street, making its retreat from the clash of swords and guns. Gilbert whistled sharply and somehow, he would never know how, she heard him and stopped to look back.

Gilbert felt his heart leap up and he ran forward, whistling again. Wink turned around and started to trot towards him, her ears pricked in curiosity as if she was asking him where he had vanished off to. He all but flew into her saddle, his foot barely touching the stirrups in his haste to get on. He soothed her with a pat and looked up, his breath catching when he noticed Russia standing at the mouth of the alley, his face and clothes covered with blood and his eyes staring right at him. The huge man surged forward, pushing soldiers out of the way and running right towards him and oh goddamnit he could move fast! The pale nation snarled and gave the Russian the finger before turning and riding off, still trying to clutch his coat closer to himself as if that would erase what had happened, and feeling filthier than he ever had in his life.

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><p><strong>AN: I'm sorry I'm sorry, oh my gods I'm so sorry for posting this messed up thing right after my smut and there is something seriously wrong with me ;_;**

**...I actually had this finished before I finished the flute lessons, but I wanted to post the smut first so that it wouldn't look funny later.**

**But this was TOO GODDAMNED long so I didn't post it with the others I had. Really, this is what happenes when I have a certain scenario/idea in my head for a long time, it grows into something like this. XD I've wanted to do something on the capture of Berlin for a long while and I just decided to go and use this prompt for it**

**But Seydlitz makes a return appearance for you guys! He's shown up almost as much as Zieten now :D**

**He pretty much HAD to be in this story since he was in Berlin when the city was attacked (because a cannonball had fucked up his arm during Kunersdorf and he had to for sick leave cause he had terrible health) and when General Rochow, the governor of Berlin, thought of handing the city over Seydlitz pretty much went "Oh hell no!" and leaped out his bed to go put together his own force of soldiers, and then Knobloch and Lewald jumped the bandwagon with him.**

**Apparently they were pretty successful too, and even though Seydlitz could use only one arm he still rode out of the city to scout with his troops and stumbled upon a band of Cossacks along the way, and then promptly kicked the hell out of them. In fact the Prussians managed to defend the Köpenick gate rather well until the Russian reinforcements came and the Austrians showed up. Then it was pretty much a case of "holy fuck get to Spandau NOW before the Austrians take us prisoner cause they ain't too happy with us at the moment." And Seydlitz did this all with one arm in a sling. Damn.**

**But my headcanon has Prussia being here to defend his city, since he freaking KNOWS when someone (especially another nation) is in his capital/heart and it'd be a cold day in Hell before he lets them stay there. In fact he pretty much just up and left without telling anyone anything (leaving Fritz super pissed and super worried) and got to Berlin as fast as possible. Aaaand since I love Russia to death he had to show up. Naturally.**

**I kind of...don't know what happened with this story anyway XD I had the idea of Russia doing this to Prussia in a hope of breaking him or causing a backlash on his relationship with Fritz and creating a rift between them, but I can't really justify his reasons other than he's doing since he thinks it's the only way to truly hurt his enemy. Gah I'm sorry I'm rambling cause I ramble when something bugs me x_x**


	18. Daybreak

**A/N: Gah I should REALLY stop giving you guys these single chapters. It's driving me nuts x_x**

**This is a direct sequel to Alive, which finally details the rest of Fritz's escape for you guys. Enjoy~!**

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><p><strong>Daybreak <strong>

The night air was bitingly cold, so much that Frederick cursed for not having a thicker coat. He crept along the woods, searching for the road that led away from this place and to the main road that swept all across the countryside. He remembered his captors leading him up it after he had been captured, for some reason they had not blindfolded him. It went west, was about seven miles long judging from the time it took to travel it, and surrounded on both sides by more woods. He could just hide in the woods and follow the path all the way to the main road, which would be his salvation. That was all he needed to do, get to the road. Don't make a lot of noise and he would be just fine, all the Hungarians were distracted anyway—

"Stop right there!"

Frederick froze completely, his heart leaping into his throat and for a moment he thought that he might faint out of sheer terror. That voice had been frighteningly loud and it was the very last thing he needed to hear, looking at his current situation. A second later he started to scream inside of his head, his fear being destroyed by the anger rising up inside him. God. Fucking. Dammit!

"Turn around, Your Majesty."

Damn, they knew who he was. He sighed to himself and slowly turned around. There, just a few feet behind him, was a hussar with a pistol in his hand, aiming it right at him with his other hand hovering over the other holstered pistol. The moonlight wasn't clear enough to see his face, but Frederick could easily see the scowl etched into his expression. The monarch clenched his jaw to stop himself from yelling. _Really? After all that you went through you get caught not a minute afterwards—_

The hussar took a few quick steps forward. "How did you escape?" he demanded, just the slightest bit of nervousness edging his voice.

_Waltzed out like you owned the damn place— _"I walked out," he replied flippantly, pausing his inner tongue-lashing to be annoying—_stupid son of a bitch you _deserved _to get caught again for doing this. _He started to shake, but not out of fear. He didn't have time for this! Gilbert was still in that house, almost dead because of these hussars, and he needed help right this very instant! This man, this simpleton, was wasting his time and Gilbert's was running out. Suddenly the monarch was furious, angrier than he could ever remember being in his life, and the feeling made his heart race and his limbs shake. The rational part of his mind was frightened by the change, since he never got _this _angry at anything, but it was just a distant whisper in the back of his head now.

Unaware of his captive's mood, the hussar came closer. "Enough with the games," he said. He held his pistol loosely in his hand, his concentration slackening. "I already had to deal with your general earlier, and my patience has been worn thin for tonight."

The words made Frederick jaw drop in shock. Was this the soldier that had given Gilbert that terrible blow to the head? He remembered the name from the conversation he had overheard earlier: Jósza. It was _his _fault that his nation was laying in that house right now, it was _his _fault that Gilbert was in so much pain! It was his fault that Gilbert was dying.

Only the gun stopped him from leaping at the man. He wanted to so, so badly, but his feet seemed rooted to the ground. His fingers curled into a fist and he wanted to… wanted to what? Frederick wasn't quite sure, but he knew that whatever it was he wanted to see this man in as much pain as possible., he wanted to see him suffer just like he and Gilbert had suffered this night. He wanted it so much that he could barely think straight an all he could think about was the roaring in his ears and the all-consuming anger that was destroying his self-control.

Good gods, was this how his father had felt all the time when he was angry?

Jósza was right in front of him then, his pistol now pointed at the ground. "You can tell the others how you got out," he said, grabbing Frederick by the shoulder. "I need—"

That was it. That man's touch, the very same man who had hurt Gilbert, sickened him in the most profound sense, which quickly turned into fury. He knew that he was not going back to that house without putting up at least some sort of fight, so he did something that the Hungarian would have never expected: he punched him right in the face.

His fist moved before he even realized it and there was a shock of pain that went down his entire arm as his fist connected with Jósza's head. Frederick gasped at the sudden pain and jerked his hand back, leaving Jósza to stumble to the ground. The King swore and rubbed his knuckles, feeling them sting at the contact. The rings on his hand had probably split them open and he could feel blood on his fingers. Alright, so it hadn't been the most honorable or proper thing to do, but it worked. Frederick stared at the fallen hussar, stunned that he had been capable of doing such a thing, until Jósza suddenly moved. Immediately Frederick pulled Gilbert's knife out of his pocket and knelt down, pressing his knee against Jósza's chest to hold him down. "Listen to me," he said, placing the tip of the knife against his throat. "I—"

But Jósza did _not _listen. He thrashed underneath him and grabbed his arm, trying to twist the knife away from him. It all happened so fast that there was only a flurry of movement and Frederick instinctively pushed his hand down to keep it there. He felt something, almost like a tug, against the blade and suddenly it sank down into Jósza's skin about halfway to the hilt.

Blood sprayed out and hit him, soaking his clothes and neck and hands. He couldn't see it but he knew that it was blood because it was warm and a part of him that simply _knew _things but didn't try to rationalize them quite calmly informed him that he had just stabbed Józsa in the throat. Frederick scrambled away in horror, taking the knife with him as he did, and he heard and awful wet, _gurgling_, sound coming from the injured soldier. He watched Jósza twitch and put a shaking hand against his throat, feeling the ragged wound there. Then he heard him draw in a wet, choked breath and—_oh god he's going to scream he'll scream I can't any noise the others will come—_

He could barely think at all, his panic and shock simply had him reacting to things instead of actually thinking about what to do next. He lunged forward and stabbed again, cutting into the man's neck a second time, feeling the hot blood gush around his hands as he worked the blade back and forth. A man's voice came from his throat, so logic dictated that in order to silence someone the quickest you had to go for their throat, right? Jósza was still fighting him, fighting the blade that was robbing him of his breath, gasping desperately for air and clawing at him, the cries in his throat becoming choked on his own blood. It was everywhere, soaked thoroughly into his clothes and hair and who knew the human body could hold so much of it? And then it was over. Jósza paused, and then he went limp and his breath slowly left him in one long sigh. He didn't draw another one. The flow of blood stuttered and gradually stopped altogether.

Frederick stood stock still, unmoving as he stared at the body below him. His heart was hammering in his throat and all he could hear was the pounding of his heart. "_Oh god…" _he whispered, staring at his bloodied hands that still held the knife in Jósza's throat. They were nearly buried in there, digging inside the gaping wound that stretched across Jósza's neck like a sick parody of a smile and he could feel flesh and veins between his fingers. The realization came crashing upon his a second later and he literally fell backwards as he tried to scramble away from the body, away from the _corpse, _that he had just created. He killed him, _he killed him _and there was blood all over him, on his hands and face and clothes and it clung to him like a second skin; the smell was everywhere, clogging his nose and mouth with the sickly sweet scent of death. His stomach heaved and for a moment he thought that he was going to throw up, but he managed to keep it down with only the greatest difficulty. It wasn't like he had anything in his stomach anyway.

Frederick managed to stumble to his feet and clutched a nearby tree for support. A tremble had taken over his body and suddenly he felt dizzy, as if the world was tilting on its axis. He slumped against the tree and tried to take deep breaths, staring off into the darkness until he was certain that his body wasn't going to rebel against him. _I had to do it, I had to, _he kept chanting to himself, repeating the words over and over like a mantra as if they would eventually make everything better. Jósza kept flashing into his mine, his hands trying to grab him and push him away, still trying to save himself even as Frederick pushed the knife in deeper. He felt sick. He had killed people before in the heat of battle when he was trying to command his troops and the enemy got too close, but that was different. In battle it was kill or be killed and you had to make instant decisions without worrying about the consequences. This was no battle, it was murder.

He stayed like that for a few moments, then he jumped as he heard a door slam somewhere by the house. What the hell was he doing, standing around like this? He looked up and thankfully didn't see anything, but he wasn't going to take his chances. The King swallowed and carefully made his way over to Jósza's body, kneeling down once more. Gilbert's knife was still sticking out of his throat, and he yanked it out with a sharp tug. He shuddered at the sensation and wiped the blade on his breeches, pocketing it once more. His clothes were without a doubt absolutely ruined so a little more blood wouldn't hurt. The hussar's carbine was lying on the ground, but it would be cumbersome to carry. Being a hussar, Jósza had a saber, but Frederick didn't know how to wield that type of sword. He grabbed both of Józsa's pistols, nearly dropping them because his hands were still shaking, and stuffed them in his pockets. It was pathetic, two pistols and a knife, but they were better than nothing and he had no intention of getting caught a second time and having to use them. He looked back once more and then fled into the forest, the darkness swallowing him in an instant.

It was barely light enough to see by, and he had to feel his way along most of the time. He tried to step as lightly as possible and listened as intently as he could for any approaching footsteps, ready to duck down in an instant. It was far slower than his previous trip, but mercifully it did not last very long since he saw lantern lights just a few minutes later, showing him where the road was. The first smile of that night crossed his face as he saw the pale yellow flames bobbing in the gloom like little suns, illuminating the two sentries that flanked them. He wasn't near dumb enough to actually step out into the road and show himself, but he could stay in the woods and follow it and if he was quiet enough the no one would know. He thanked that his uniform was so dark since it hid him all the better.

Frederick made his way forward, ducking between trees and almost having a heartattack every time he stepped on a twig or rustled some leaves. He didn't see a lot of other lights or sentries, probably because it would have been absurd to post a lot of people out here, and even if anyone heard him they didn't do anything. They probably thought that he was some sort of animal or too unimportant to pay attention to. He tried to think of how long it would take him to get to the main road, since this one twisted and turned and the last time he had been on it he was on horseback. Going through the nearby forest was much different; it was taking forever.

At any moment he expected to be caught. For some rider to come galloping down the road announcing that the King of Prussia had escaped his prison. After all, his holders hadn't been _that _unobservant, and he knew from the moment he jumped out that window that his time was limited, slowly running out like sand through an hourglass, and he tried to put as much distance between him and the house as possible. Everything started to blur together as time dragged on, he knew that he wasn't going in circles but everything still looked the same. The only way he could mark his progress was the occasional sentry he saw. He couldn't even look up at the moon, because the trees overhead blocked it out. So when he suddenly heard the sound of running water he stopped to make sure that his mind wasn't playing tricks on him. They had crossed a bridge the first time he had ridden down this road, the structure spanning over a wide stream, but after wards it had almost been a six-mile ride to the house. Did he _really _come this far without being caught? What was going on here?

The Prussians would have never been this careless, he thought to himself as he crept forward. If a prisoner had escaped at all then he would have been caught under an hour and thrown back into his room with chains binding him instead of ropes. He saw more lights up ahead, nearly twice as many this time, and the whole bridge was lit up with them. Two hussars lounged nearby, their horses tethered to the railing on the bridge, which made his passage across it impossible.

Frederick swore to himself and made his way down to the creek. He didn't mind crossing the water, but it was definitely inconvenient. It wasn't that deep, since he could remember looking down on it and seeing the bottom; the deepest it would get would probably be up to his waist. The king crouched on the bank and peered into the gloom. He could barely see the water and was only able to discern the reflections on its surface. The lights were far enough away that he wouldn't immediately be seen if someone looked his way, but there was enough light to where someone would notice _something _down the stream. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair then paused when he felt it crackle and stick. Oh right, he still had blood in it.

Frederick grimaced in disgust and stuck his hands into the creek, flinching from the icy cold that bit into his skin. It made his swollen knuckles sting, but a moment later the pain faded. He could not see it, but he knew that the dried blood was being washed away as he scrubbed his hands and wrists, flinching again as he touched the raw patches on his wrists where the ropes had chaffed away all of his skin. He didn't have his handkerchief with him, so he cupped his hands and splashed water across his face, rubbing it away with a clean part of his sleeve. His uniform was ruined anyway; the blood would never come out so it was pointless to worry about keeping it clean now.

He stayed there for a few moments, staring out into the darkness and listening to the water, and then he stood up. A quick glance confirmed that neither of the distance guards on the bridge were looking in his direction, so he took a deep breath and stepped carefully into the water. To his relief there was barely any noise as the water swirled around his boots, the sound of the stream drowning out whatever noise he made. The freezing cold seeped through his boots easily, but despite that an ironic smile still came across his face. "When it is the matter of an important operation, it does not matter if a soldier wets his feet a trifle,"* he murmured to himself.

But he spoke too soon. Just a handful of seconds after he spoke he felt his foot suddenly slide on the stream and he was sent falling into the water. He threw out his hands just in time to save himself from a dunking, but there was a loud splash and his arms plunged into the dark water up to his almost up to his shoulders. Frederick winced at the noise and the fact that his arms and knees were now submerged in the freezing water and dear gods it was cold. He glanced fearfully upward. One of the hussars had turned his head and was now peering into the darkness as if looking for something.

Frederick stayed absolutely still, as if the chill of the stream had frozen him in place like a statue. His heart was pounding in his chest so loudly that the whole countryside could probably hear it and he was torn between wanting to run and staying rooted to the spot. The net was closing in on him, drawing tighter and tighter with its subtle embrace until he could barely breathe, the air coming in and out of him in irregular pants.

The hussar shielded his eyes from the light as if to help him see better, leaning against the railing of the bridge for a better view. His companion turned and after a moment tapped him on the arm. The two of them exchanged a few words until the hussar turned a little, pulling away from his surveillance so that he could talk to his comrade. Frederick sighed and went limp with relief, almost falling into the water because of it. Thank gods, he hadn't been seen. He pushed himself up, shivering from the water and the cold sweat across his brow. He absently wiped his sleeve across his face in a nervous movement smearing more water across it, and waded to the other shore, feeling as if he had just dodged an artillery round.

A shiver ran through him, and then another. The night had already been chilly, but that little episode back there had made things worse. His hands were totally numb, even the pain gone, except for the little tingles under his skin that had him clenching and unclenching his hands in an attempt to bring the warmth back into them. He stuck them inside of his coat and shivered again, feeling the last dregs of adrenaline leave his system. A sigh escaped his lips and he stared morosely into the darkness as he walked, which had suddenly become much more depressing than before. There were no more lights up ahead, no more guards, the road only a mile away that wouldn't even take twenty minutes to walk. But what then? Where to go? He had no idea where he was in this countryside, and no inkling of where the army might be.

Had Gilbert said anything about it? Frederick tried to remember the brief words they exchanged before Gilbert had been injured. No, he had not. But… he did mention that the army had been looking for him for two days. If they still were, then that would mean that various scouting parties scouring the countryside and hell, they might have noticed Gilbert's prolonged absence and there were people searching for him as well. That was certainly a comforting thought, but that all depended on how close the army was and how persistent the Prussians were.

Yes, he had to go and break his own hopes, didn't he? He had every faith in these brave people that he ruled, but there was always that _chance _that he, or they, might fail. His own pessimism kept him from hoping, and then he was annoyed at himself for not being able to blindly hope for some miracle. The logic in that was a little backwards and even that irritated him.

That was when, right in the midst of his brooding, he literally fell into the road because he tripped over some unseen root. He yelped as he felt himself falling and threw out his hands, grabbing onto the branch of a tree just before he passed it. It was too weak to support his weight however and it snapped, sending him stumbling into the open road. Frederick swore heatedly and threw the branch back into the woods, cursing his stupid thoughts for distracting him. "Goddamnit," he muttered, brushing himself off and looking around. He could see the moon now, and its cold light faintly illuminated his surroundings. The road stretched endlessly in either direction, one way heading—Frederick glanced up at the sky—north, and the other pointed south. The King frowned and tapped his lips in thought. He had been in Wartha Valley when he had been captured, and it was still nearby, and he remembered where the army had been during that time. Of course they had moved, there was no doubt about that since they were always marching somewhere, but they still had to be lying in the same general direction…

Frederick was silent, scuffing his boot in the dirt. That was barely anything to go on. Worst thing was it was his _only _thing to go on. Finally, after a few long moments of deliberation, he turned north and set off, his quiet footsteps being the only thing that broke the silence of the deep night. It really had seemed as if nothing had changed, as if time had come to a halt. Nothing stirred, nothing whispered, nothing even _breathed. _It was as if he was the sole living thing in the world, left to wander the countryside in total solitude. He shook his head as if he could physically dislodge the morbid thoughts from it. None of that now, sulking would do him no good. It was hard not to though, with this dark and endless night stretching out before him and the lurking fear that was winding around his heart, dogging his footsteps. Frederick had never been a religious man, but during that time he prayed. If Gilbert died… well Gilbert couldn't die because he would always come back, but the idea of his love lying in that cold and unforgiving house, slowly dying while Frederick himself walked as free as a bird, was almost literally painful. After all it was his fault that Gilbert was there in the first place, since it was his fault for getting kidnapped and his fault for leaving him there. Guilt churned in his stomach like a stormy sea and he gripped the edges of his coat and shivered, feeling hot and sick and dizzy.

Great, if he was coming down with a cold on top of everything then he just might scream. It would be his luck too.

Frederick was jerked out of his thoughts by another shiver and he looked up, unaware that he had been staring at the ground. This was bad, he was starting to zone out, and he needed to concentrate if he was going to get anywhere. He rubbed his eyes, feeling tired, drained, and heavy, as if his limbs were made of stone. When he opened them again he noticed a bunch of floating lights down the road. He blinked a few times and they were still there.

The sudden light after all of the darkness was hurting his eyes, but after a few seconds his eyes adjusted to the change and he realized that the lights were actually lanterns. They were being carried by some men on horseback, and from the number of them it looked like an entire platoon. Frederick tensed and was about to run off into the woods to hide when a flash of blue caught his eye. He stopped and squinted, peering through the hazy light and feeling his breath catch when he recognized the uniform of the Prussian hussars and dragoons, both units intermingling for some strange reason. But right at the very head of the group was Schwerin, leading them on. No, he wasn't dreaming, that really was Schwerin coming towards him and he had a whole damn group of soldiers with him _yes! _All at once his gloom and weariness vanished and it took all of his control not to burst out laughing from sheer relief. He all but ran ahead, his footsteps light and swift.

Despite the noise of their horses and equipment clanking together they still managed to hear him somehow. A ripple of movement passed through the group and suddenly there were pistols being drawn and sabers hissing as they were unsheathed. "Who's there?" Schwerin demanded, pointing his pistol into the darkness. His voice was frighteningly loud compared to the quiet that had been unbroken just seconds before.

Frederick jumped at the noise, and for one brief instant he thought that they were going to shoot at him. He recovered quickly though. "It's just your King, Field Marshal Schwerin," he said, stepping closer until the very edges of their circle of light touched him.

Their faces were absolutely priceless. Everyone stared at him in absolute shock, their faces a mix between horror and amazement. It lasted for a long, awkward moment and then everyone was shouting and he was almost bowled over as Schwerin rode up right next to him and almost jumped off of his horse's back. "Frederick—I mean, Your Majesty, I—" Schwerin looked him up and down and probably would have embraced him out of pure joy if there hadn't been a platoon of soldiers behind him. The man couldn't have possible looked more surprised than if God himself had descended from the heavens to have a little chat with them. "_What happened to your clothes?" _Schwerin finally choked out, his voice tight and controlled as he tried not to yell.

Frederick looked down to see what he was talking about and felt his own eyes widen. The front of his clothes was stained with dried blood, which had turned his coat a murky purple color. It was literally all over him, from his neck to his boots and he was certain that there was still some left in his hair. But during all of his walking and brooding he had forgotten all about it. "It's not mine," he heard himself say, although his mouth seemed to be working independently from his brain. The words just tumbled out of him, calm and steady and controlled.

Schwerin clearly thought that he had lost his mind, if the look he gave him was anything to go by. The other soldiers looked equally skeptical, not that Frederick could blame any of them. After all when most people saw you covered in blood they just naturally assumed that some of it had to be yours. "There's not a mark on him, Field Marshal," one of the hussars suddenly spoke up. "He can't be hurt."

The marshal's eyes went to Frederick's wrists, and the monarch almost pulled his sleeves down in response. Schwerin obviously noticed the injuries on his wrists, but he did not remark on them since that would have called everyone's attention to it. Instead he wordlessly removed his great overcoat and held it out for his leader. "Here, you're shivering," was all he said as he offered it. There was a grim twist to his mouth though, which said that he noticed a _hell _of a lot more things than just him shivering.

Frederick frowned and was about to protest but the look that Schwerin gave him made the words stop in his throat. "Thank you," he replied as he took the coat and slid his arms into it. It was warm and wrapped around his smaller frame like a hug, hiding most of his bloodied clothes and his wrists. Only then did he think about just how much of a mess me probably looked. His hair was unpowdered and uncurled, a few loose strands of it floating around his head, his face was hollow and pale, and his clothes covered with blood that was apparently not his. It was no wonder they looked so shocked when they first laid eyes upon him, he looked nothing like a king.

Schwerin turned and gestured impatiently to one of the men. "Bring one of the spare horses for His Majesty immediately," he ordered. "We will head back right away, now that our King has returned to us."

Smiles and laughter broke out among the men, but Frederick did not join them. He face was still grim and his eyes stared fixedly ahead as if he could see something that they couldn't. The elation of finding Schwerin was wearing off, his resolve back and firmly in place. "No," he said, his voice hard and decisive.

At once the others were silent and they turned to him again. "Your Majesty," Schwerin said, shocked, "what are you talking about? We—"

"We have to go back. Back the way I just came," Frederick cut him off, jerking his thumb behind his shoulder. "General Beilschmidt is gravely injured."

A ripple of shock passed through the men and Schwerin went paler than he already was. He was the only one of them besides Frederick who knew Gilbert's true identity. "He was with us a while ago, searching to find you, but he eventually went off on his own," the old marshal told him. "I see that he was the one who finally found you." He was quiet then, obviously torn between rescuing a fallen comrade and spiriting his dear off to somewhere safe.

Frederick spared him the trouble of his dilemma. "I'm certain that I am quite safe with you and your men, Schwerin," he said, taking the reins of a horse that was being offered to him. He turned to the hussars and dragoons. "You would not desert me like me own dragoons did, would you?" he asked them.

"No, Your Majesty!" the soldiers gasped, incredulous that their monarch could foster such an idea. They sound as if they would rather tie themselves to stakes and set themselves on fire than let their King be captured again.

Frederick climbed into the horse's back, amazed at how much energy it took. "See? With such courageous and zealous men like these how can we not succeed?" He saw them beaming with pride from his praise and they all sat a little straighter in their saddles. He always knew what to say to win people over, and his soldiers were not exempt from that.

Schwerin still looked a little skeptical, but in an argument between him and the King he would lose every time. He simply shook his head and mounted his horse again. "Which way, Your Majesty?" he asked.

"Straight ahead," Frederick said, letting a few of hussars get ahead of him before leading his horse into a brisk trot. How brighter the night seemed now! It was so strange how a single event could throw off the veil of desolation that had blanketed the whole world not a few minutes ago. Now everything around him seemed to be filled with life and promises. His uncharacteristically happy thoughts were interrupted by a sudden sneeze.

"Don't tell me you're getting sick," Schwerin said once the chorus of "gesundheits" had ceased.

"Just a little chill," Frederick replied, pulling the overcoat tighter around himself. Already his head felt a little stuffy. "It is very cold out here." His hands were still numb and he could barely feel his feet.

"Well I saw that we hurry up with this mission, that way His Majesty can be taken somewhere warm," one of the hussars suggested.

Frederick turned and smiled at him. Thankfully it was someone he knew. "I thank you for your concern, Lieutenant Kleist. However I would not like to bungle the operation due to rushing." The hussar stared at him in shock, probably because he had just been addressed by name and rank by the King, whom he had met but once.

Despite his words he still found himself hurrying. Or maybe everything just seemed to be going faster because he was on a horse now. It seemed to take only minutes before he saw the old, inconspicuous path that led up to his former prison, even though he couldn't even begin to think of the time it took him to reach Schwerin. "That way," he said, stopping by the path.

Schwerin looked dubiously at the path that Fritz was pointing out. "It looks like an abandoned hunting trail," he said.

"I know, that's the whole point of it. Trust me, Schwerin, this is the right way."

The path was so narrow that two riders could barely go through side by side, but it was only a hundred yards before it widened out into a proper road. Lieutenant Kleist of the hussars placed himself at the head of the small party that took the lead once they heard from their King that there were guards along the road. There was no talking then, everyone silent as they tread into the unknown.

"I see lights up ahead, Your Majesty," Kleist spoke up after a moment, pointing up the trail.

Frederick waved the other lantern holders back so that the Hungarians wouldn't see them coming up the road. "That would be the bridge," he informed them. "There are two guards along it. Can you see them?"

"_Ja, _two Hungarians," the hussar replied.

Schwerin gave him a look. "Should we take them prisoner?" he asked.

Frederick returned it. "Would you prefer it?"

There was a grumble of discontent. "Not when they captured you, Your Majesty!" someone said.

Frederick turned around and gave him a glare. "I did not ask _you," _he said coldly.

"Normally I would say yes," Schwerin answered reluctantly. "But we simply cannot carry and injured comrade and who-knows how many prisoners back to camp. We don't have enough numbers for that."

The monarch nodded. "No prisoners then," he ordered.

"Lieutenant Kleist," Schwerin spoke up, "try and—oh not you, Lukas." He was speaking to one of the dragoons that suddenly stepped forward. "I meant your brother, Hans."

The hussar grinned in amusement and came forward. "Yes sir?"

"See if you can hit one of those sentries down there."

Kleist saluted him. "Yes sir," he said and drew out his carbine, trotting forward a little.

Frederick raised an eyebrow, although no one could really see it. "Can you hit one of them from this far away?" he asked curiously.

"Yes, Your Majesty, I can," Kleist replied. After he loaded his bullet into the gun he brought the weapon up to his shoulder, slowing down his breathing as he did. A few long seconds passed, where there was nothing but utter silence, and then there was a flash of fire and a loud crack that made the horses jump. One of the Hungarians suddenly jerked and pressed a hand to his chest, stumbling back and falling as he did. His comrade jumped back in shock, staring dumbly at the body for a few moments, which allowed one of the other Prussians to ride up and fell him with a single swipe of a saber.

Frederick stared at Kleist in amazement. He could hardly believe that he just made that shot on horseback, in the dead of night with only lantern light to show him his target, from that far away. He glanced at Schwerin, who was smiling widely. "Lieutenant Hans Kleist is an excellent shot," he said gleefully. "Some say that he's even better than the cuirassiers."

The lieutenant ducked his head almost as if to hide a blush. "You flatter me, Field Marshal," he said, sounding almost embarrassed.

"There's no one up ahead!" the soldier at the bridge called.

"There will be," Frederick replied, crossing the bridge. "More sentries are posted on the road." He pointed to the horses that were still tied to the bridge, stamping nervously at their approach. "Take their horses. It would also do good to keep a lookout for General Beilschmidt's horse as well, for he no doubt rode through this area." Schwerin nodded a confirmation.

This was where he was in his element, among his troops and giving orders. He felt a great calm settle over him, his cool and logical mind finally coming back to him. Gilbert's danger and Józsa's death were still troubling him—he couldn't even look at the dead bodies on the ground—but there was no voice in his head telling him to _go, go, go _like before. He had the advantage now, he would send some hussars out ahead to take care of the rest of the guards on the road and they would reach the house without a fuss. It all sounded ridiculously easy.

Frederick could feel a smile forming on his face, but it was a small one. He was free and getting his revenge on his captors, but Gilbert was not safe yet. He didn't think he would be totally fine until that happened. Unease still made him a little nauseous and his head kept pounding, or maybe that was just because he was getting sick now. For the most part the King kept silent, only speaking to give orders or reassure Schwerin when the field marshal gave him a particularly worried look. They quickly made their way up the road, the patrol ahead taking the Hungarians completely by surprise with their sudden appearance. There truly were no prisoners left behind, and Frederick felt a sting of pity for the soldiers that had to dig all of their graves later. It seemed to be all too soon when they turned around a bend in the road and the two-story house loomed up ahead, ominous and menacing with its dark windows that looked like black eyes staring out into the night. There was one room that was still lit, but it was very dim.

Schwerin rode up next to him. "Where is Field Marshal Beilschmidt?" he asked.

Frederick pointed to the window that he had climbed out of. "In there. You will have to go through the main room to get to the second floor, since it has the only set of stairs in the house."

"That's not a problem," Schwerin replied, gesturing to his soldiers. "Lieutenant Kleist, ach, curse it the both of you, I keep forgetting there's two of you. Both of you take some of your men and storm the house. Try not to let yourselves be seen on the way there."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Your Excellency," Lieutenant Hans Kleist replied, saluting him along with his brother. Both men picked out a handful of hussars and dragoons to follow them, and they dismounted and crept carefully up to the house.

"How many did you say were in the house?" Schwerin whispered to him, keeping an eye on their progress.

"It can't possibly be more than ten. They can handle it," Frederick said, pulling his friend's coat closer around himself. He was grateful that Schwerin had given it to him, despite his earlier protesting. Even though his hands and feet were cold the rest of him was pleasantly warm, and the way the large coat wrapped around him like a blanket was much more comforting than he cared to admit. He ignored the triumphant "I-told-you-so" look that Schwerin was giving him and sat up straight when the sound of gunshots split the air. "Let's go," he said, going forward.

The sounds of battle could be heard even from their distance, of swords clashing and people shouting. A few more shots rang out and then it was all melee fighting. In about a minute it was all quiet except for the murmur of voices, and after a moment of hesitation Fritz dismounted and headed for the door with the others behind him. It was carnage inside, with pieces of furniture knocked over and blood staining the floor, and the soldiers already dragging the bodies to the back of the house. Some of the candles had been knocked over and sputtered out, and only a bare handful dimly lit the room and made everything seemed more macabre in the flickering shadows.

Frederick stepped around a puddle of blood and listened to Schwerin interrogate Lukas Kleist for casualties, although the dragoon seemed to have some blood staining his sleeve. He carefully walked forward and noticed that there were two Hungarians sitting on a couch with Lieutenant Hans Kleist and another hussar guarding them. Hans looked up as he approached. "I took them prisoner, Your Majesty," he quickly explained. "I know that it goes against your orders, but they were the only two left and I wasn't sure if you would want them questioned or not."

"I" this and "I" that. He was taking fully responsibility unless his King disagreed with him, a noble soul. "No, I think you were quite right," Frederick said. "They might be useful later on."

He heard footsteps pounding down the stairs and a dragoon appeared. "We found Field Marshal Beilschmidt upstairs," he reported, his face pinched with worry. "He looks bad, Marshal Schwerin. He's barely breathing and we found him covered in blood; he won't respond to anything we do. It's too dangerous to take him all the way back to camp, Marshal."

The short, sharp explanation made Schwerin frown. "Bring him down here, at least," he said. "And someone get some candles in here, you can barely see anything."

His words very distantly registered in Frederick's brain. He was too busy staring at a distant corner of the room, going over what the dragoons had said. _Barely breathing. Covered in blood. Won't respond. _Had Gilbert even moved? Had he, sometime during his absence, woken up to see that he was alone? Did he think that his beloved King had left him, or had he just lain there, never waking, in that pale imitation of sleep? Frederick remembered barely feeling a pulse on him and having to listen to his heart just to make sure that he was still alive. _But nations are supposed to _heal,a small part of him whined, _Gilbert has never kept any wound he received for more than a week. Why isn't he better _now?

He glanced up as three dragoons suddenly came down the stairs, gently carrying Gilbert's body between them. Even in the dim lighting he still looked like hell, one whole side of his head stained with dark blood, his clothes covered with more of it, his uniform ripped and covered in boot marks, and the bones of his hand were still… gods. He was torn between wanting to rush over to him and wanting to turn away from the terrible sight. The shocked cries that came from all around when the others saw him just made it so much worse. The dragoons settled him on the other couch and for a moment he looked exactly like a corpse, so pale and bloodstained, but then Schwerin came over holding a candelabra and the light from the candles dispelled the image somewhat.

"Christ," Schwerin swore when he saw the state that Gilbert was in. He placed his fingers on Gilbert neck, unconsciously mirroring what Frederick had done hours earlier, and after a moment placed his hand over Gilbert's chest instead. "One of you ride back to the camp immediately," he ordered without looking up. "Get one of the chief surgeons down here as fast as you possibly can. Move!" A hussar dashed out of the door with one of his comrades close on his heels.

Finally Frederick turned away. He couldn't stand to look at his nation anymore. He went over to one of the windows and leaned against it, watching the hussars as they mounted their horses and rode off at a full gallop even though they were barely in the saddle. They vanished in a matter of seconds, and it took the King a moment to realize that he had actually seen them riding off even though they carried no lanterns with them. He looked up to see the horizon lightening, turning a light, cloudy blue. Had time really gone by that fast? He could not have left this house any later than midnight, and now morning was already coming. The past events seemed like a blur now, all jumbling together until he could swear that the whole night's ordeal took minutes instead of hours. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, feeling them ache from all of the light. It was already adding up the headache that was forming along his temples and he still felt cold and slightly nauseous.

He heard gentle footsteps behind him and turned slightly to see Schwerin. "Your Majesty should get some rest," Schwerin said, keeping his voice low. "You look tired."

Frederick shook his head slowly. "I can't," he replied, staring blankly out the window. "I couldn't possibly sleep after all of this."

Schwerin's gaze was filled with sympathy as he stepped closer. "Frederick, you are not well," he said. "Look, you're still shivering." He glanced back at the other soldiers as if making sure that no one was watching. "For God's sake at least come and sit down, we're building up a fire right now and that should keep you warm." His hand tugged on Frederick's sleeve insistently, and Frederick relented. Schwerin led him over to a chair they had pulled up by the fireplace while trying to make it look like that he was not guiding the King anywhere. "It will be daybreak soon," the field marshal said as Frederick sat down. "Everyone will be up and the doctors will be here shortly."

Frederick just nodded, his gaze fixed on the small flames that Hans was trying to build up in the fireplace. They were sputtering weakly, trying to grow stronger and bigger, trying to live. He finally looked over at Gilbert, whose face was utterly blank, and the rising and fall of his chest was barely discernible. Frederick could not see it, but he knew that Gilbert was trying to grow stronger as well, also trying to live. He turned back to the fire, averting his gaze from all of the marks that covered Gilbert body. Hans was carefully feeding the fire lint and bits of twigs that someone must have given him, and the flames ere steadily rising. Frederick could only pray that Gilbert's condition would mirror it.

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><p><strong>AN: *actual quote**

**Gah, so so looong. And kinda mehish in my opion but yays I finally got this part wrapped up! But it doesn't end this little storyline, oh no. There is more angst to this and tons of OOCness from Fritz but since it's kind of AU I'm tweaking stuff here and there.**

**Although I will say that if anything this story gave me two new OCs and my Lieutenant brothers are making themselves quite at home in my head :I**


	19. Words - Nickname

**A/N: Lateness, again. Then again these aren't really scheduled so it's not "late" but IT'S BEEN A WHILE. XDD Hopefully the angstiness and the length makes up for it though.**

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><p><strong>Words<strong>

Desolation. That was what he saw in all the eyes of Zieten's soldiers. A dark hopelessness that had settled over them all like a black cloud. He had been amazed when he had first seen the beaten and downtrodden troops whom were all so different from his own. Of course his soldiers were still drunk from their brilliant victory at Rossbach, and it had been hard not to feel the same way when you heard all of the cheerful hymns and singing going on during the march.

Hardly anything was cheerful now, but they didn't know that. Only those who were at the very top of the chain of command were aware of their dire situation. Prince Charles was in Schleswig and, in the simplest terms, he had to be kicked out. Immediately. But how was he supposed to do that when half of his army didn't even have the spirit to talk about victory? Frederick rubbed his hands together worriedly, toying with the green diamond ring he wore on his right hand. It was a habit of his to twist it around his finger whenever he was stressed, as was the pacing he was currently doing. The thump of his boots kept his thoughts in order, like how the Prussians marched to keep themselves in line, and stopped them from spiraling off into an oblivion of self-doubt.

Prussia looked up as he made another turn in his pacing. The nation, for some reason that Fritz could not fathom, was simply lounging in a chair. "You're going to wear a path into the ground if you keep that up," he said teasingly.

"Tch," Fritz replied, in no mood to banter, for a change. Of course his generals had to be informed of the situation and his plans. In fact they should be arriving any moment now. He had sent messages to all of them, telling them to meet him outside of his tent so he could speak to them. He had already made up his speech and was even reciting it in his head at this very moment, and he could only imagine their faces as he spoke to them. To attack an army twice their strength! Frederick knew that it sounded mad and went against all the norms of warfare, but then against he was never a fan of anything "normal" anyway. It was either attack or die. Attack or die. Like black and white.

Gilbert scowled at his monarch's less-than-satisfactory reply. He could tell that Fritz's thoughts were probably a crazed whirlwind at the moment, since he had that distant, distracted look in his eyes that had caused him on more than one occasion in the past to walk into something or trip over the furniture because he didn't look where he was going in all of his frantic pacing. Thankfully there were no such obstacles present in the spartan tent, but he was afraid that Fritz would make himself dizzy from all of the turning that he was doing. He stood up and strode over to Fritz, grasping him firmly by the shoulders and stopping him in his tracks. "Quit pacing," Gilbert said quietly. "It doesn't help and it'll make you hurt yourself if you're not careful."

"I'm perfectly careful," Fritz lied, gently shrugging the hands off of him. "I just need something to do."

"Well, go outside and say hi to Tauentzien," Gilbert suggested. "He's about to arrive."

Fritz sighed and ran a hand through his hair, taking care not to mess up the curls. "Yes, yes," he said absently. If anything the news made him more nervous because he was running out of time. "Gilbert, do you think this plan is completely crazy?" he asked suddenly.

Gilbert blinked in surprise. Fritz hardly ever asked questions like that. He must have been more worried than Gilbert realized. "Yes," he said, knowing that his King liked honest and frank responses. "But we're backed into a corner, and animals always fight the fiercest when they're cornered. Not that we're animals, but that's beside the point." He heard Fritz sigh again and frowned. "Hey, look at me," he said, tilting Frederick's head up so he could look into his eyes. "We'll be fine," he said, staring into those bright blue orbs.

"How do you know?" Fritz asked after a moment. "Half of the troops are disheartened, and you know as well as anyone that you can't win a battle with soldiers who have no energy or hope. They've already tasted bitter defeat, and they won't want to fight again."

"Yes they will," Prussia said gently. "You don't know my people like I do; I feel what they feel. They will fight for you."

Frederick sighed quietly, threading his fingers through Gilbert's. "Fighting isn't enough, _liebling. _I have to make them _want _to fight." He looked up, his intent eyes searching Gilbert's own. "Gilbert, you know I don't often ask for advice. But I need to know: what can I do to bring their energy back? I need my soldiers confident of victory, how do I do that?"

The kingdom tilted his head to one side. Well, at least when Fritz went to others for help he knew exactly the right people to go to. It took him only a moment of thinking before he responded. "Give an extra ration of bread, first off. And beer. Plenty of beer. Brandy works fine too." Fritz gave him a look and was about to say something when Prussia interrupted him. "Hey, alcohol does wonders, you know that. Just don't let anyone get drunk. Furthermore, you should relax some of your discipline and let the soldiers of different regiments mix and talk with each other. Those who were at Rossbach will brag of their great victory and laud you with praises and eventually their comrades will be affected as well, and also want to earn a victory for themselves. But the greatest aspect is you."

"How so?" Frederick asked, his lips quirking into a tiny smile.

"Well, you just summoned all of your generals here—and they're all waiting outside, by the way— and you plan to soothe their fears first. That will of course send out ripples through the army, but you should go among the common soldier as well. Talk with them, do what you usually do. When the men see you with them, sharing their hardships, it forms such a profound loyalty that you have no idea. That's why they've followed you this far already. You've been doing this for years, Fritz, I don't know why I have to tell you all of this."

"Even kings need to be reassured sometimes," Fritz said quietly. "And I would like to hear the words from the most reliable source." Gilbert could already see him standing straighter, his confidence returning. "You said the generals were here?"

Gilbert nodded and gave the hand in his a squeeze. "Yes, now go outside and reassure them with your words, then reassure the rest of the soldiers with your actions."

Fritz chuckled and stood on his tiptoes to place a chaste kiss to his lips. "Come on, then. You'll be with me the entire time." He went to a table and grabbed his hat, pressing it over his head as Prussia handed him his cane. Together they stepped out into the snow-covered plains of Parchwitz.

All of generals were outside, holding low conversations, but they all looked up when they noticed Frederick striding across the snow and Gilbert trailing after him like a shadow. Instantly the frowns on their faces disappeared as they saw their beloved King approaching them, his head no doubt filled with some brilliant plan or another. Frederick made a quick count in his head, found everyone present, and gave them a quick smile as he stopped in front of them. "Generals," he greeted them warmly, watching them salute in return, "Are you aware of why I have called all of you here?"

There was a small beat of silence. Then General Lentulus stepped forward. "Your Majesty wants to tell us something important. A plan of action perhaps?"

"Yes, exactly that," Frederick replied with a nod. He saw them stand straighter and lean forward, listening to him with rapt attention. He took a deep breath, letting the chilly December air freeze him from the inside, calming his thoughts and his heart. He spoke his next words in German, far more fluently than anyone would have suspected him capable of, and noticed the surprise on his officers' faces when they heard him. "You are aware, gentlemen, that Prince Charles of Lorraine has succeeded in taking Schweidnitz, defeating the Duke of Bevern an making himself master of Breslau, while I was engaged in checking the advance of the French and imperial forces." He saw nods from all around. "A part of Schleswig, my capital, and all the military stores it contained are lost, and I should feel myself in dire straits indeed if it were not for my unbound confidence in your courage, your constancy, and your love of the Fatherland, which you have proved to me on so many occasions in the past. These services to me and to the Fatherland have touched the deepest fibers of my heart. There is hardly one among you who has not distinguished himself by some conspicuous deed of valor, wherefore I flatter myself that in the approaching opportunity you will also not fail in any sacrifice that your country might demand of you."

Prussia noticed many of them beaming as the King spoke, praising them in his earnest way. Yet as he said those last few words a few of them frowned in suspicion. Zieten in particular seemed thoughtful, and he actually glanced at Prussia for a moment, his light brown eyes burning with the question: _Is he really planning to attack? _He was not the only one, since the mention of the "Fatherland" had also brought such looks from the others. He pressed a finger to his lips and gently tilted his head towards Fritz.

The whole exchange had barely lasted a second. If Fritz had noticed it, then he didn't show it. He held his head high and boldly went on. "And this opportunity is close at hand. I should feel that I had accomplished nothing if Austria were left in possession of Schleswig. Let me tell you that I propose, in defiance to all the rules of war, to attack the army of Prince Charles, twice as large as ours, wherever I find it." He threw his words out like a stone, and he saw a ripple of surprise pass through the assembled generals. Shock was clear on some of their faces, and before any of them could form a response he continued, his voice like steel. "It is not a question of the numbers of the enemy nor the importance of the positions they have occupied; all of this I hope to overcome by the devotion of my troops and the careful carrying out of my plans. I must take this step or else all will be lost. We must defeat the enemies, or let their batteries dig our graves. So I believe, so I shall act."

His previous doubts seemed to have completely left him. He stood in the snowy plain like a statue that was immune to all of the hardships that nature and humanity could throw at it. Gone was the man who had been pacing and questioning himself, thrown away like a shabby old coat. In his place was the King they all knew. As he walked amongst them they all turned to him like flowers to the sun. "Communicate my decision to all the officers of the army," Fritz said briskly. "Prepare the common soldier for the exertions that are to come, and tell him that I feel justified in expecting unquestioning obedience from him. Remember that you are Prussians and you cannot show yourselves unworthy of that distinction! Bear in mind, gentlemen, that we shall be fighting for our glory, the preservation of our homes, and for our wives and children. Those who think as I do can rest assured that, if they are killed, I will look after their families. But if there be one or another among you who fears to share with me any and all danger, he may at once be given his discharge with the slightest reproach from me."

It was dead silent as he said that, broken only by the slight whistle of the wind. Not a single one of the generals stirred, except to shake their heads. "Never, sir, never!" One of them murmured in such a plaintively shocked tone that it was as if he was asking his reagent just _how_ he could entertain such a ludicrous thought. A few of them had tears in their eyes from Frederick's heart spoken words, something that did not go unnoticed by the monarch, and Zieten shook his head in amusement. Seydlitz grinned and kept his feet planted firmly on the ground as if to anchor himself to his King's side until he was ordered to move. _As if we would ever leave you, _his grinning face and sparkling eyes seemed to say. Gilbert felt their confidence and resolve wash over him like a soothing balm, and at that moment he wanted to laugh and embrace all of them.

Fritz seemed to feel it too, for at once he broke into such a warm and charming smile that Gilbert felt his breath stop for a second. "I was convinced that none of you would wish to leave me," he said gently, bringing forth a matching smile from everyone present. "I count then, absolutely, on your faithful help and on certain victory. Should I not return to reward you for your devotion, the Fatherland himself must do it." Gilbert had to grin at that. "Return now to camp and repeat to your troops what you have heard from me." Suddenly the warmth was replaced by the stern ruler once more, although it still lingered in his eyes. "Any regiment of cavalry that does not immediately, on the receipt of orders, burst impetuously on the foe, I shall unhorse immediately after the battle and convert into a garrison regiment. Any battalion of infantry that even begins to hesitate, no matter what the dangers may be, shall lose its flag, its swords, and I shall cut the gold lace from its uniforms." There was a collective wince at that. "And now, gentleman, farewell. Tomorrow we shall either defeat the enemy or we shall see each other no more."

"We will conquer or die!" Seydlitz exclaimed, barely able to contain himself in his excitement. "Conquer or die!"

The shout was taken up by all of the others and soon they were laughing and cheering, their King's words still ringing in their ears. Fritz had done exactly what he wanted to do: he had encouraged them. After being dismissed, they soon rode off to tell their regiments, just as they had been ordered to. As the last man was riding out of sight, Gilbert leaned over and murmured, "_We few, we happy few, we band of brothers_."

Frederick chuckled. "And yet you still try to convince me that you care nothing for classical literature," he said, reaching down to give his hand a brief squeeze. "Well, _liebling,_ if we are going to attempt any of those things you suggested to me then we better get started right away. It will be dark in a few hours." With that he quickly headed to where their horses were kept, Gilbert following closely behind.

**God**

"Well, God is with us now," Zieten was saying sagely as they marched along under the cloudy day. The stamping of the soldiers feet and the blaring of drums and flutes made such a noise that only those who were actually listening to the conversation could have heard him. "The soldiers believe it, and you know how well they fight when they believe that the Almighty is on their side."

"Let's just hope that he's merciful this time," Fritz replied softly, staring straight ahead.

Barely anyone heard it, but despite being one of the older generals Zieten's hearing was still as sharp as ever. He turned in his saddle to give his King a reassuring smile. "He is always merciful, Your Majesty," he said. "Just think of Rossbach and Leuthen, and Liegnitz right after Dresden."

Fritz smiled at the words. "Yes, an almost miraculous recovery, as you might say. Well, if he wants to stay with us a while longer I'm certainly not going to stop him."

The hussar general chuckled a little at the gentle joke and went back to his conversation with one of his aides, his expression serene and his words steady. Fritz's smile lingered for a few moments, then it faded away. It was well-known that he was not religious and didn't place a whole lot of faith in the deities that many claimed to exist. However he tolerated the conversation if it ever came up, not only because Zieten was one of his closest friends, but also because the general seemed so peaceful and confident about it that it was hard not to be affected by it as well. He attributed his brilliant victories to his own genius and the wonderful bravery of his officers and soldiers, but he knew how the religious idea could boost morale so he often let it slide. But he was all too aware that he was running out of miracles, and he would need many more before this war would end.

He saw the large black warhorse in the corner of his vision before Gilbert spoke. "If you're not going to place much faith in the heavens then at least have confidence in your troops." He was speaking softly so that no one else might hear him, and Oppen knew better than to try eavesdropping. "We have never failed our King whenever he has needed us most."

The smile threatened to reappear. "That is true," Fritz agreed. "I have every confidence in the Prussians, however I cannot pretend that we don't have countless other problems on our shoulders." He let out a long sigh that steamed in the cold air. "Sometimes it makes me wish that I could be like these others, able to believe that their God will somehow make it all better."

Gilbert had to hold back a laugh. "You'd hate it," he said.

"I know," Fritz said, an adorable little frown pinching between his brows. "No matter how much I wish for ignorance at times, I know that I despise it in all forms. A nice bit of contradicting matters, I'll tell you." He rubbed his cane against his temple lightly, no doubt thinking and contemplating as usual. "And you have total confidence in them?" he asked after a while, although he knew the answer to that. "Do you no longer pray for help from God?" His dear nation did not seem very religious now, but his people were. Not to mention that he had once been a priest, and a holy order of knights before that.

Prussia shook his head. "I would have a long time ago, but I've become a bit jaded to such things," he replied. "The religious fervor left us all a long time ago." None of the nations placed a lot of reliance on the gods nowadays. Centuries of living did that to you.

Fritz was silent for a few moments. "But do countries have an esteemed figure?" he pressed on. "It doesn't even have to be a deity, just some sort of mythical person?"

Where had that come from? Gilbert gave him a look, but aside from genuine curiosity Fritz's face was unreadable. He wanted to say no, and was on the verge of saying so, but something stopped him. His king would certainly that the old tales were utter nonsense, but he _had _asked so it would be his own fault. But Prussia had not thought of those in years and years. "Well," he began hesitantly, unsure of how to explain it. He saw Fritz's eyebrows go up as if he was surprised that he got an answer. "Yes and no. There is one, but..." He toyed with the reins for a second, wrapping them around his fingers. Oh, how Fritz would laugh when he heard it.

"What's his name?" Fritz prompted gently, keeping his voice barely above a murmur.

"Her," Prussia corrected him. "Her name." Fritz looked surprised at the revelation and he went on. "We call her Mother Earth."

Frederick frowned in puzzlement. "Mother Earth?" he repeated as if he thought that he had heard the words wrong.

Gilbert nodded an affirmative. "Yes, she is supposed to be the embodiment of the entire Earth, not just one country. She is said to be the mother of us all, hence the name."

"Hmm," Fritz replied, looking rather interested, much to Gilbert's surprise. "Like Gaia."

"Yes, that's what the Greeks called her," Gilbert said. "Stories have it that when you're born—a country, I mean—then she takes you to the land that is supposed to be yours one day and leaves you there for one of the other countries to find. She comes again only when you're dying, to take you away."

"To heaven?"

He shrugged. "Wherever you go when you die," he replied. He looked over at Fritz and noticed that he had grown several shades paler and his eyes were widened in horror. "Hey, are you alright?"

"What does she look like?" Fritz asked him in an almost choked voice.

Gilbert narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Why? It's not that important."

"Prussia," Frederick said in a low tone that he had never used before on his nation. "Tell me what she looks like."

Something was definitely wrong with him. "She doesn't really have a specific appearance," he said at last. "My father, Aestii, used to say that she had dark hair and red eyes. But when Germania told me about her he said that her eyes were blue and her hair blond. Because she is all of the countries, she looks like all of them." He paused before going on, his words hesitant. "I… I saw her, once. After the Battle of Tannenburg, when the Teutonic Knights had been defeated. The Order nearly disbanded afterwards, and I saw her, and to me she had blond hair, but her eyes were as red as mine. And when she got closer her eyes were green, th—" he stopped when he saw Fritz turn his head away from the others around him, as if to hide his face. For one long second Gilbert saw the fear and horror written all over his expression, then it was wiped away and replaced with a cool, calm countenance. Why did a description of her affect his King so? "Have you seen her?" he demanded, hardly daring to believe what he was seeing.

Fritz raised his head and took a deep breath, calming himself. His eyes stared straight ahead, their color a murky gray-blue, like dark rainclouds. "Yes," he replied quietly. "I have indeed seen her."

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><p><em>August 13, 1759<em>

"Come on, love, you can wake up," he whispered in a voice that trembled as much as his hands. He could hardly believe even his own words, but he had to keep trying.

Gilbert did not respond. His face was still lax as ever, eyes closed as if he were peacefully asleep. But that was the only thing peaceful about him. He had been stripped of his uniform and covered almost head to toe with bandages, all of them bloodstained and filthy. It was hours after the battle and his wounds were still bleeding, and Zahner kept having to come in and change the bindings. Now he had gone off to beg the supply stations for more because Gilbert had bled through the rest of them. He had never seen Gilbert so injured before; he had actually fainted while the battle had been going on and had to be carried off.

The monarch stared at the hand that was clasped between of his, so pale in comparison. It was cold too, so cold that not even the warmth from his own hands could dispel it. He stroked it with his thumbs, feeling more helpless than he ever had in his life. "Gilbert," he murmured, freeing one of his hands to brush it tenderly across his nation's forehead, gently sweeping his hair away from his eyes. His skin was cold even there, as if he were already dead. "Gilbert, _liebling, _please…" he said, feeling his throat tighten at the sight before him. "I know this is my fault," he blurted out suddenly, hoping against all odds that Gilbert could somehow hear him. "This war, this failure of a battle is my fault completely. You can berate and yell at me all you like because of it, but I need you to open your eyes." Fritz could feel himself trembling, both of his hands shaking. The self-control that he so prided himself on was coming apart.

He was steadily ignored. There was a deathly silence within the room, the moans of the rest of the wounded soldiers in the house fading away for once. Gilbert's breathing didn't even stir it, hell the only way to tell that it was even there was to watch the rise and fall of his pale, thin, bloody chest. Frederick couldn't look at it for very long, for he would see each gaping wound and the memories of how each appeared would surface. He had been there for all of them, when they had torn open on their own accord as if Gilbert had been attacked by invisible enemies. The massive red blotch along his entire left side and arm had been from when the Russians had turned and smashed their left wing to pieces; Frederick remembered the bloodcurdling scream that had been torn out of Prussia's throat as that happened, a literal fountain of blood gushing from his side as he fell to the ground and bled to death right there among them. Worse than that were the numerous stab wounds across his chest, all given to him by that goddamned _Russian._

The very thought of the other nation made Frederick want to draw his sword and use it on someone. How dare he, how _dare _that revolting man do this to his precious country! Oh he had seen it all, every single thing, when Prussia and Russia had faced off, just like every country did whenever their armies met in battle. He had seen when Gilbert's injuries forced him to slow down, and Russia had taken advantage of that, brutally throwing him to the ground and then stomping on him, snapping the pale man's ribs underneath his boots. Many of the soldiers tried to get to them, but the countries had been far too close to Russia's side of the field, and so they could do nothing but watch helplessly as the twisted arctic nation eventually grew tired of his game and drew his sword again and started stabbing Gilbert wherever he could reach. Good god, the way Gilbert had screamed… and yet he had still tried to fight, spitting out curses along with blood and his hands grabbed Russia's boot and tried to twist his ankle. But, the much larger man had simply shaken him off and then broke his arms as well to prevent it from happening again.

Frederick brought Gilbert's hand up to his lips, trying to dispel the thoughts and the awful images they conjured up. He felt utterly sick thinking about the battle and the carnage that it had created, and how their country had to suffer because of it. His fault, all of it his fault… he swallowed and felt his eyes burning, tears welling up and running down his face silently. He made no move to wipe them away, because that would mean that he would have to let go of Gilbert, and he wasn't moving unless someone pried him away from his beloved's side.

Was this how Gilbert felt whenever Frederick talked about his own death? This utter helplessness and terror that ate away at him from the inside? How in the world could he stand it? Frederick groaned, pressing the hand against his face in shame. Watching the person he loved dying right in front of him, wanting to be able to do something and yet knowing that he could not prevent it. Gods, if Gilbert had ever felt a fraction of what Frederick was feeling right now, all because of him and his silly death talks, then he was without a doubt the most heartless fiend who ever walked the earth.

Suddenly the monarch paused, overcome by the disconcerting feeling that he was no longer alone. Was Gilbert finally awake? No, the soldier had not even twitched within the time Fritz had been there. Fritz turned, half expecting Zahner to be there even though the man always made some sort of noise, and was shocked to see a woman standing in the doorway. She wore only a simple dress, like one of the peasant stock, but it was white. Her hair was not pinned up in some sort of style, much to his surprise, and hung down to her elbows in rich golden locks with only a single braided section running along the length of her crown.

He frowned at her. What in the world was she doing here? He had clearly said that he did not want to be disturbed, unless it was by Doctor Zahner. How the hell did she slip in and more importantly, why? She carried nothing on her, no bandages or any sort of medical equipment, nothing that would be of any remote help. "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice once more strong and whip-like. "What are you doing here?"

She didn't answer him. Really, that was becoming quite tiring. She started to move towards him, her eyes fixed on Prussia. She had only crossed halfway into the room when Frederick leaped to his feet, his hand on his sword. "Answer my question," he growled out, his anger rising. You did _not _ignore the King, especially not a simple peasant such as herself! His eyes were cold and hard and his jaw was clenched tightly, his narrowed eyes giving her a glare that could always make his subjects shudder in fear.

The woman stopped, turning to look at him. She didn't seem to be the least affected by his look, which troubled Frederick more than he would have liked to admit. Now that she was closer he saw that she had blue eyes as well, but they were much darker than his. They were deep, somehow, as if he was gazing into a lake in an attempt to see the bottom. She blinked once, seeming a bit confused, and looked him up and down as if trying to figure him out. "I came for him," she said at last, tilting her head towards Prussia.

For a moment Fritz was stunned, caught up in her voice. It was beautiful, as beautiful as the person it belonged to. Smooth as a forest stream and as sweet as a spring breeze that brought the scent of fresh flowers. It reminded him of the quiet Silesian forests in the summertime, and the windswept cornfields during harvest season, and for a moment he could see the grounds of his once dear Rheinsberg in his mind's eye, with its beautiful lake and the gardens that covered the area. A moment later her actual words processed in his brain, and he the peaceful bubble of his thoughts was popped instantly. "What do you mean by that?" he asked suspiciously, a feeling of unease running down his spine. He didn't like this at all, this mysterious woman who appeared out of nowhere, with her strange eyes and voice who said that she was there for _Gilbert, _his dearest love who at this very moment didn't even have the strength to open his eyes.

"Exactly what I said," the woman replied, her voice losing none of its mystical quality, although the tone was sharper.

"Where are you taking him?" Fritz said, tightening his grip around the hilt of his sword. "No, don't answer that, it doesn't matter. He's not going anywhere." Gilbert was barely in any condition to _breathe, _let alone be carted off to god-knows-where. And just who authorized this anyway? Certainly not him!

The woman raised an eyebrow at him. "He has to go, he's dying," she said simply.

"He is not!" Fritz shouted, flinching away from her words as if they had been bullets aimed at him. "One battle does not kill him, he—" he stopped when he realized that he was about to reveal Prussia's secret and shook his head. "He's not dying," he repeated, fervently praying that his words were true. "He's just injured, very badly." He had to resist the urge to turn back to Gilbert and make sure that he was still there. "Now, leave. The King commands it."

"You are not my King," the woman replied evenly, pinning his with a gaze that seemed to go right through him. Her eyes were ancient, like an old crone trapped inside the body of a young woman. "I do not have to obey you." She went to move past him.

In an instant his sword was out and the tip hovered inches from her throat. Frederick felt himself shaking again, but the point of his sword was firm. Her words: _You are not my King. _My King. She said them the same way that Prussia always did, with a sort of possessive air about them. But her eyes—oh, why hadn't he noticed before?—were not human. He had seen many countries in his lifetime, Prussia of course, but also France, Austria, Spain, Great Britain, Italy, and Russia, and even more. He always noticed one thing about them though, and it was their eyes; he had no way to describe it, but their eyes were not like a normal person's, and not just by their color. There was a simple _something _about their gaze that seemed to immediately hold your attention, even when they weren't looking at you. "What nation are you?" he demanded, his voice hard and clearly worn out in patience.

She gently reached up and pushed his blade away from her, but he brought it right back to where he had it before. "I am not any one Natio," she replied evenly, but she looked away as she said that. A long sigh escaped her, as quiet as the rustling of leaves. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you who I am."

"Try me," Frederick said.

She smiled at him and shook her head, her wheat-gold hair rippling along her shoulders like the flow of a river. "You wouldn't," she said again as if she was a mother assuring her stubborn child of a fact.

He sighed as well, but in irritation. "It's getting very tiring that you're not answering any of my questions," he said, contemplating whether or not to call the guards. But that would cause a scene, and he had seen how well nations could fight. Two humans wouldn't even cause them any trouble.

"I'm sorry," the woman said, "but you simply wouldn't understand." She went to move past his again and this time he reached out and grabbed her by her arm. She whirled around and gave him a sharp glare.

"How many times do I have to tell you that you're not taking him anywhere?" Fritz told her, meeting her gaze unflinchingly. Gilbert had tried that trick on him plenty of times, he was well used to it by now. "I don't care what nation you are, he is _my _country, and _I_ should be able to decide what happens to him!" He stepped back until he was right beside the bed, a clear barrier between her and Gilbert.

"Why should you care, though?" she asked, tilting her head to one side questioningly. "Aren't you just going to end your own life anyways? What would be the point of keeping him alive if you won't be around?"

He felt the blood drain from his face. Only his friends and generals knew about his poison. How— "How do you know about that?" he said, feeling the hairs on his neck rise.

She shrugged. "I can feel when a soul is depressed. Yours is in despair, ready to end itself to escape the pain that living brings you. So why should you care if he lives or dies? You plan to kill yourself anyway."

"T-That's not for certain," he protested, although it sounded weak even to him. He tried a different angle. "I can't have him die. Not while I can do something about it." He couldn't let another precious lover die in front of him, not again. But that was the whole problem, wasn't it? As long as he was around, Gilbert was still alive, because it was through his efforts that their country was still in one piece, although barely. As soon as he was gone that would all fall apart. His heart ached for his nation, and at the moment he wanted to simply gather him in his arms and hide him away where no one else could hurt him. Alas, such was not to be.

"You can't have him die before you," she said, putting his exact thoughts into spoken words. "You don't want to suffer that pain, so you want to kill yourself before that happens."

He winced and turned away from her, going back to Gilbert, who had not even batted an eye during their entire conversation. He looked so still, and his paleness and bloodied bandages made him look like a fresh corpse. Frederick felt his guts twist up inside of him at the comparison. Gilbert's arms were laid on top of the blanket, one of his hands resting neatly on his stomach and the other lying at his side; he could have been asleep. But the posture was all wrong. He had never in his entire life seen Prussia sleep in anything other than a sprawl or a cuddle. He reached out and grasped Prussia's hand tightly, as if his grip could somehow keep his nation there. "Leave me alone," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

There was a tense silence after that, and Frederick didn't hear any footsteps, much to his irritation. Then he suddenly saw a flash of white in the corner of his vision as she stepped around to the other side of the bed. He tightened his grip around Prussia's hand and glared at her warningly, although she didn't even look at him. Her eyes were on Gilbert, taking in everything about him, lingering on his face and the bloody rags that were still wet. He saw sadness in her eyes, but a ghost of a smile was on her lips, like a mother gazing upon her favorite child. But as he watched he saw her eyes change, their blue color deepening to a bright purple seemingly on their own accord. "Don't!" he snapped, fisting his hand and knocking hers away as she reached out to touch Gilbert. She froze. "Don't you dare touch him. If you do and he dies I swear by whatever God that exists that I will kill you." Those eyes, oh lord those _eyes, _they belonged to _him._

Her eyes widened a little in surprise. "But you cannot kill me," she said in a matter-of-fact voice. "If you know nations then you should be well aware of that."

"I don't care, I will find a way," Fritz replied. "It doesn't even have to be me, I will order my entire army to do it." _Your little army of, what, 3,000 the last time you checked? _A sarcastic little voice in his head sneered. He told it to shut up and ignored it.

She shook his head at him, but her smile had grown wider for some odd reason. "That's very noble of you, to care so much for him," she said gently. "But I wasn't going to do anything to him." Suddenly her eyes changed again, morphing into the same bright crimson shade that Gilbert had. "I'm sorry about that, sometimes my looks change on accident," she apologized, biting her lip in an almost self-conscious way.

Frederick fumbled behind him for his chair and all but fell into it. What _was _this woman? She could change her looks at will, and sometimes not, as her words said. He had never even heard of anything remotely like that from Gilbert, so was she even a country at all? He made a noise in his throat when she reached out again, but she merely brushed Gilbert's bangs along his forehead, like Frederick had been doing earlier. But this time was radically different. Gilbert's eyes flickered at the touch and his head moved the slightest fraction, turning into her hand. "Gilbert?" Fritz gasped, squeezing the hand in his own as he leaned forward. There was no reply, not even a change in breathing.

"He's still unconscious," the woman told him, gently running a finger along Gilbert's temple, stopping next to his eyes. The lids were parted slightly and the whites were clearly visible, his eyes rolled back into his head. She was silent for a long moment, but Frederick saw her eyes flick back and forth between them and rest upon their clasped hands.

He swallowed, feeling his tremble start up again in his shoulders. "Please," he whispered, his grief briefly triumphing over his anger. "I don't want to lose him. You can't take him. Not while his heart still beats, not while he's still here." He felt tears building in his eyes but he kept them in; he would not cry in front of her.

She gave him a contemplative look. "Can you save him?" she asked, quiet and thoughtful, like a sweet breath of wind.

Fritz met her stare evenly. It would mean that he would have to stay alive in order to save Prussia, but if that was what it took… "Yes," he replied unwaveringly. "I can save him, and I will. I just need a little more time." His heart thumped as he realized that he was using the exact same words that Gilbert had often thrown at him when he had been trying to convince him not to kill himself. The pure irony of the situation made his eyes burn even more and a lump formed in his throat.

She had to look away from him, back towards Gilbert. Her fingers once more started to stroke his hair, but her touch was infinitely gentle, like a butterfly's wings gently grazing against the petals of an easily-bruised flower. "Then I won't take him," she said after a long beat of silence. "It certainly could be his time, but if you insist—"

"I do," Frederick interjected.

Her lips twitched. "Then I will spare him. Can you just take better care of him, though?"

Why did he have to promise her anything? Nevertheless, he forced his words out past his throat. "Yes, absolutely," he said, brushing his thumb along Gilbert's hand.

She stood up, running her finger down Gilbert's face one last time before straightening up. She sighed, but it sounded… relieved. "Thank you," she murmured, giving him a smile. Her eyes—no, Gilbert's—were so warm that it nearly broke his heart, because the one he loved could not look at him like that now. But why in the world was she thanking him? Before he could ask she turned and started to walk away. "I can let myself out," she said over her shoulder, opening the door and slipping through, making hardly a breath of noise.

Frederick blinked in confusion. Just like that she had vanished, as quickly as she had appeared, like a ghost or some other nonsense. What the hell? What the _hell _just happened? He groaned and thumped his head onto the mattress, resting by Gilbert's hand. Gilbert would never believe this if he told him.

That is, if he ever woke up for Frederick to tell him.

**Insanity**

"_Why won't you look at me?"_

"Go away," he gasped, facing the wall so it looked as if he were talking to the stone.

"_That's not nice, Friedrich. I miss you. And I know you miss me. Why won't you look at me, love?"_

"You're not real," he whispered, tears rolling out of his eyes. He couldn't be, he couldn't be. The prince kept chanting it to himself like a mantra, as if saying enough times would make the apparition vanish into thin air.

"_Nonsense, then how I else would I be here?"_

That was a good point. Frederick would have retorted that it was because he was going out of his mind, but that hadn't occurred to him yet. Insane people had an odd way of not consciously knowing about their state of mind. "Please go away," he murmured again, closing his eyes. He just wanted to be left alone. That didn't help though, because the instant darkness swarmed upon him he saw Katte, alive and smiling. He snapped his eyes open with a gasp and almost screamed when he saw Katte's face in the wall, hovering there like some sort of mist. He almost fell out of the bed in his fear and clutched the blankets to himself, shivering.

"_You need to get more blankets, Fritz. Honestly you complain about being cold and here you are with only one blanket to keep you warm!"_

"Shut up," he whispered, clasping his hands over his ears. That never helped though. The voices were in his head.

"_Don't you talk back to me you brat! When I was your age—"_

"_Eh, when I was your age I was busy with the Crusades. Trust me, it wasn't even worth it. The place was way too goddamned hot anyway."_

"_Who would have thought that summers here could be so hot? Luckily I have a nice private place we can cool off at, down by the river."_

Gods it was hot, and yet so cold at the same time. He threw the blankets off of him as quickly as he had pulled them on. He shivered, feeling the cold air brush against his skin like ice. It so cold in this place, the walls were cold and the air was cold, but he was hot. It was as if his body was trying to cook his insides and it made the blood in his head pound sickeningly. A marvelously cool hand started to stroke his face, brushing the sweaty bangs away from his eyes. He screwed his eyes shut and whimpered, feeling little daggers of pain as memories came flooding back to him.

He turned onto his side and for a moment the world rocked as if he were on a boat. He felt awful, his head felt as if it wanted to explode and his insides kept twisting around themselves. He couldn't eat and in all honesty he didn't want to; just the thought of it made him nauseous. He wanted to sleep, sleep and forget, but his memories would not let him.

"_Mein Prinz, will you please look at me?"_

His eyes snapped open, but his gaze was stubbornly fixed to the ceiling. He wasn't going to look, and no one could make him. He was going to lay here until he fell asleep.

At least, he thought so until Katte stepped right into his line of view.

He leaped up, smashing his head against the wall, and drew in a breath to scream when Katte suddenly pressed his hand to his mouth. _"Shhh, it's alright, Friedrich," _the soldier whispered, smiling at him. Oh god he looked so real… "_You don't have to be afraid. I'm here now." _He leaned forward and would have kissed him if Frederick had not flinched away.

"No you're not," the prince whispered, trembling like a leaf and brushing his hand against his mouth. His lips were still tingling from Katte's touch. "You can't be. I saw your—your body on the ground." His breath hitched a little as the memory surfaced beneath his eyes, the headless corpse and the blood, oh the blood…

"_I may have been out there, but now I am in here,"_ Katte said patiently. He had not lost the smile. _"You do like my company, don't you? I remember you telling me how you would rather be with me than anyone else in the world."_

"Yes. I know I said that," Frederick mumbled, curling his knees up to his chest and plopping his head down so he did not have to look at his former lover.

"_Don't be like that, love. I want to see your eyes, they're so pretty." _There were hands on his face, so light it felt like they weren't really there at all, trying to get him to look up. He stubbornly buried his head deeper, refusing to move. He felt his breaths climbing, raising in pitch until he was almost hyperventilating. _"Friedrich, please. Don't you love me?"_

The trembling seemed to have reached down into his very bones. "Yes," he choked out, disgusted at the pathetic noise that clawed its way out of him. "Yes, I do. I always have."

"_Not enough, apparently." _The snap of Katte's suddenly-harsh voice made him look up. Katte's smile was gone and his face blank, but there was something hard about his eyes. "_If you had really loved me, then would you have let this happen?" _He asked, drawing one of his fingers around his neck, which had suddenly become covered in blood. More blood was trickling out even as he spoke, soaking the collar of his shirt and running down his body in little rippling streams. _"If you had loved me, then would I not have to walk around like this?" _With a sickeningly wet noise, his head suddenly fell right off his shoulders and landed into his arms. Katte's smile grew wider and mocking, his face somehow managing to make expressions even though his head was no longer attached to his body. "_Would I?" _Katte's head asked again, spittles of blood flying from his mouth as he spoke.

Frederick screamed. It was more like a shriek than anything and pierced the total silence of Küstrin like the shattering of glass. He scrambled to get away from the man whose head was now in his arms and _oh dear god he was still _talking _to him make it stop please make it stop—_he bashed his head against the wall again, his vision flickering for a moment. When it cleared he saw Katte coming closer. "Get away from me!" he screamed, clawing at the wall behind him as if he could somehow dig through it. He didn't even feel it when some of his fingernails were ripped off, his eyes glued to Katte and his chuckling, blood dribbling from his mouth and more pouring from the gaping wound in his neck like a fountain. He did feel it when blood started to run down his own hand, though. He looked at the wall and screamed again when he saw that it was covered in more blood, the thick liquid oozing from the cracks and raining from the ceiling. He nearly gagged at the taste and the smell, and brushed himself off frantically, feeling it seeping into his clothes and hair. It was useless, however, the red streams splashed onto him and got in his eyes and mouth and nose, clogging his senses with the hot, thick stench and feeling of blood.

The floor was now covered with it, a bright red lake that lapped at his bed and swirled around Katte's legs. The soldier seemed oblivious to it, and a small part of Frederick wondered why in the world the guards outside of his door would not see it running out into the hall. _"It's not that bad, Friedrich," _Katte's head said, his voice like warm butter. Warm like the blood.

"_Oh Fritz, it's not that bad. You're such a whiner sometimes."_

Gilbert! Where was he? He snapped his head around, looking for him, but he couldn't see anything over the blood, which he tried to wipe out of his eyes.

"_Look, just take a deep breath kid. Everything's gonna be alright."_

No it wasn't. Nothing was right. Tears burned his eyes again and they washed out the blood, allowing him to see clearly. Gilbert was nowhere in sight, but Frederick could hear him as clearly as if he were speaking in his ear. He could even feel his breath puffing his neck and the strong, but gentle, hands that soothingly ran through his hair like Katte's had. They smeared the blood all over him and he tried to squirm away but that just made him slide across the blood that his cot was now covered in.

Katte came closer, his legs swishing loudly in the pool of blood that his cell had become, with more pattering coming down from the ceiling above. _"Don't be afraid, mein Prinz," _his head murmured through the mouthful of blood.

Frederick gasped and whimpered, his breath catching in his throat and making the world spin again. "Go away," he pleaded, shivering at the feeling of blood running across his body. He wanted to just jump into the Oder River, marshes be damned, and scrub himself until every last speck was cleansed off of him. Behind Katte he saw a figure suddenly rising from the blood like some sort of leviathan out of the depths of a watery hell. His eyes widened when he recognized his father, and grasped in one of his hands was a sword—Gilbert's sword. The same sword that had been used to kill Katte. The blade was stained with blood. "Look out!" he yelled as he saw his father approach Katte and raised the sword up, his eyes burning with hate.

Katte didn't move, and Frederick screamed again when the tip of the sword exploded out of his chest with a sickening cracking noise as it broke through his spine and ribs. Katte's head fell out of limp hands and plopped into the bloody lake with a loud splash, and the rest of his body followed a moment later when the sword was yanked free. For a moment the blood swirled as it greedily ate his figure, and then he disappeared.

"_The punishment for all traitors!" _His father roared, stormy gray eyes pinning him in place like a hawk glaring at a mouse. _"Trying to run away to England? Leaving your country and your duties behind? Treason!" _He started to advance, holding the sword up again.

"Father, please no!" Frederick begged, scooting backwards and falling right off his cot and into the blood. For a moment he floundered, feeling the thick liquid tug at his limbs like hands trying to drag him down. He glanced down and let out another shriek when he saw Katte's body just a few inches from his, fingers digging into his clothing and trying to pull him under. He broke away with a hard jerk and stumbled back, trying to get away from his father. "Father, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"_Yes you did!" _Frederick William thundered, making the walls shake. _"Don't you _dare _try to lie to my face, you dog! I have had enough of you and your rebelling!" _His eyes held all of the fury of hell in them and his teeth were bared in an animalistic snarl of rage.

Something tugged at his ankle and sent him falling once more into the blood. He screamed as he saw the sword swinging for him, but it passed over his head and scraped along the wall where he had just been. The blood swirled into his mouth, making him choke as he accidently swallowed some of it. He felt his stomach heave and he screamed again as Katte began crawling up his body, his hands gripping his upper arms like two iron cuffs. But it couldn't have been Katte because this figure had some sort of blur as a head, and there was another blurry figure behind him. He spoke just like Katte, though.

"_Mein Prinz! What is wrong? Calm down—"_

His father appeared then like an avenging angel and swung again. He couldn't hear Katte-but-not-Katte's words over his own screaming and the pouring of blood in the room. He shut his eyes, waiting for the blow, and screamed, and screamed.

**Porn**

"West, are you sure you don't know where it is?" Gilbert asked for the tenth time, tossing one of their homemade videos over his shoulder carelessly.

Behind him, Ludwig blushed about two shades darker as he read the title. "Yes, I'm sure!" he snapped, grabbing the case and quickly stashing it inside one of the desks. "And stop throwing stuff around, you're making a mess."

Gilbert just made an indistinct noise and rustled through his brother's closet some more, laughing at some of the things he discovered there. "Oh come on, Lutz, I know you alphabetize your porn collection. It shouldn't be that hard to find."

"Maybe I don't have it then," Ludwig shot back. He knelt behind his brother and grabbed him by his collar, gently but insistently pulling him to his feet. "Why do you want that particular tape anyways? We have tons of others."

Gilbert gave him an "are-you-serious?" look, complete with a raised eyebrow. "Don't you remember what we did that time, West? With the ball gag and the blindfold? We still have all that stuff in the closet downstairs, I can show you—"

"_Yes, _I remember!" Ludwig snapped again, his face growing redder. "It's not in here, though. You'll have to find it somewhere else."

His older brother just rolled his eyes and snatched a random case from the closet. "You are totally finding that later and giving it to me," he said as they left the room. "That clip is far too valuable to lose!"

"Whatever," Ludwig murmured, trying to push the memories out of his head.

"Kesesese, don't act as if you didn't like it!" Gilbert said, bounding downstairs and heading for his laptop. Ludwig followed at a much slower pace, undoing his tie and loosening the collar of his shirt. He was still half-dressed in his business clothes, since had had little time to change out of them when he came home to find Gilbert digging through his porn stash.

When he hit the bottom of the steps he noticed that Gilbert was checking his email, chuckling at some of them. "I'm going to make dinner," the younger German called over his shoulder as he headed into the kitchen. He heard something indistinct and took that as an affirmative. It was the usual routine for them, Ludwig cooking dinner while Gilbert amused himself in the living room. Not that Gilbert couldn't cook, it was just that Ludwig was far too borderline OCD and obsessed with cleanliness to let him use the kitchen and be his usual messy self.

The blond banged some pots and pans around, trying to find the right-sized one while mentally running through recipes in his head. He remembered that Japan had told him of a dish a few days ago and had insisted in his polite way that he should try it. He knew that Kiku wouldn't have mentioned it unless he was certain that his friend would enjoy it, unlike Feli who just came over and cooked whatever he wanted and then insisted that Germany try it. For a moment he stood in the kitchen like an idiot with a pan in each hand, then he set both of them on the stove and went over to the bulletin board that was nailed to one of the walls. Tacked all over the board were recipes written on little panda-decorated sticky notes (something that China had talked Gilbert into buying) for further use. He plucked one off and headed for the fridge.

When he had been in the middle of grabbing some vegetables he heard a "What the hell…?" from Gilbert and then a muffled "_Heligine Scheisse_…." All was quiet for a few minutes, then he heard Gilbert yelling. "Hey West, come here for a second!"

He sighed to himself in irritation. "I'm busy!" he called back, slamming the fridge shut.

"No, you really need to see this!" Prussia immediately replied, being his usual persistent self. "Just, gods Ludwig you're missing it!"

The younger German sighed through his nose and turned the stove on. "I guess I'll have to miss it, then," he said indifferently.

"It has whips, West!" Gilbert shot back, and suddenly he heard the crack come from the living room. "I know you heard that."

Germany paused, suddenly frozen in the middle of the kitchen. A shiver worked its way down his spine and settled somewhere deep in his stomach. Another crack filled the air and following it was a loud, broken moan. He gritted his teeth, knowing that his manipulative bastard of a brother had purposely turned up the volume of whatever he was watching just to screw with him. He knew that it was a futile battle, yet he still tried to ignore the sounds that were growing even louder as time went on. He dumped a bowlful of chopped vegetables into the pan and listened to them sizzle and pop in the hot oil. In a way the noise resembled the whip, and despite his usual stoic demeanor Ludwig had quite a vivid imagination and different scenarios were already starting to form in his head. "Luuudwiiig!" he heard Gilbert call again in his most annoyingly persistent tone that he could muster, and that did it.

"Alright, what is it?" Ludwig demanded as he stomped out of the kitchen.

Gilbert was hunched over his laptop, staring at the screen with his mouth hanging open and a delicious red blush coloring his cheeks. He waved his brother over without looking at him. "Check this shit out," he said.

Ludwig sighed and made his way over to him and peered over at whatever porn movie his brother was watching now. His eyes widened as he saw someone swinging in a bondage swing set, tied up with leather and chains. Lots of chains, many of which also doubled as clamps and hooks. "What the…" he breathed, feeling himself heat up as he noticed the bloody whip marks covering the person trapped in the swing.

"Liz just sent me this," Gilbert explained distantly, although from his tone he sounded as if he really didn't care who sent I it to him. "She said that it was really hardcore and that I might, uh, like it."

Ludwig made a noise in his throat to show that he had heard, but he wasn't really paying attention. For a few long minutes they watched in utter silence, staring and frozen like a deer caught in the headlights. "West," Gilbert said suddenly, "can we get a swing?"

It took a few minutes for the blond to fully process the question. "No," he answered in a croak. But the mental image of swinging from the ceiling while wrapped in leather sent his blood rushing downwards.

"Why not?" Gilbert pouted, tilting his head to look up at him. "It looks like fun!"

Oh yes, it did. "Because it's too cumbersome," he replied monotonously. "And we would have to drill holes in the ceiling to use it. Then we could never put it away and I'm not having random holes in our ceiling."

"I'm fine with that," Gilbert said.

"Absolutely not."

Prussia huffed but did not reply, because he knew that this was one of the arguments that he would not win. "C'mere," he said instead, holding his arms out.

Ludwig raised a suspicious eyebrow. "Why?" he asked, leaning down anyway.

His response was a kiss that turned into a bite on the lip. "This thing is making me horny as hell and I need a good fuck. Any more questions?" One of his hands started to wander, tracing its way up Germany's thigh.

"Will you let me finish dinner first?" The younger one asked, a smirk starting to play at the corners of his mouth.

Gilbert gave him a matching grin. "Sure thing," he said, "but I don't know if you can salvage it."

In an instant the smirk was replaced with a frown. "What do you mean by that?" he demanded.

"Well judging from the smell it's burnt to shit now."

Ludwig's eyes widened and he sniffed the air and oh _Scheiße—_ "_Gott verDAMMT Gilbert!" _he shouted, racing for the kitchen.

A "kesesese"-ing cackle followed him. "It's okay, West!" Gilbert called laughingly. "I'll still be here, waiting!" The albino heard a swear and laughed again, knowing that his brother would have a _lot _of anger to work off later. Perfect.

**Gamers **

"Oh my fucking gods you little bastard stop _cheating," _Gilbert yelled, laughing despite himself. He gave his teacher a half-hearted kick to the side, never taking his eyes off the screen.

Frederick laughed and fended off the blow. "I'm not cheating," he said, smirking. "You just can't play this game."

"I can too!" Gilbert yelled, giving him another quick, which was quickly returned. "I'm awesome! This character is just far too slow." He pouted as his character was knocked off the screen once more.

"Your fault for choosing Pikachu," Frederick retorted, guiding his Link around the stage and picking up random bits of food as he waited for Pikachu to return.

Gilbert scowled at him and smashed the buttons on his controller so that Pikachu would leap to the other side of the stage when he spawned. "Shut up, Pikachu is awesome," he said, shooting a lightning bolt at Link.

Link ducked out of the way, just barely avoiding the attack. "It's either you who is the awesome one or Pikachu," Frederick said, making Link toss a bomb. "Do try and keep up with yourself, dear. And considering that I'm currently winning then wouldn't it mean that I'm more awesome than the both of you?"

"What?" Gilbert yelled, turning to glare at him. "You may be plenty awesome yourself, but not more than me! I'm the original awesome!"

"Eyes on the screen, Gilbert," was all Frederick said in reply. There was an explosion on the screen and both of their characters were sent flying away, but Pikachu was down to one life now. Gilbert swore in German and was silent after that, the both of them trying frantically the knock each other off the stage. Damn, who knew that his teacher could be so fucking good at Super Smash Bros?

The dogs all sat in a row nearby, staring quizzically at the two men sitting on the couch. The whole room was filled with clicking and shouted exclamations as the two of them tried their best to beat each other, and neither of them were above kicking or pinching each other to achieve that. It was because of this that Gilbird was sitting on top of Aster's head instead of his master's shoulder, since he had been knocked off more than once already. Occasionally one of the dogs whuffed and nuzzled a hand, which almost made Frederick drop his controller at one point, until a yell from Gilbert sent them scampering away. "And just what will you do if I win?" Frederick asked after a while in curiosity.

Gilbert bit his lips in concentration. "I'll think of some punishment for you," he mumbled distractedly, leaning forward and squinting at the screen.

A smirk formed on Frederick's lips. "Perhaps that would be a good thing," he replied, whacking Pikachu away with a star rod.

Suddenly Gilbert crashed into him, bowling him over and plopping himself right onto Frederick's lap. "Not if I have anything to say about it!" he crowed victoriously as he snatched Frederick's controller away and held it just out of his reach.

Frederick fought back, pushing the teen away and then jumping on top of him and using his weight to pin him to the couch. "Oh, who's the cheater now?" he yelled, reaching over Gilbert and grabbing his controller and the game quickly turned into a tug-of-war match between them. Someone paused the game so that they were free to fight each other for the controller.

Gilbert just laughed and easily fended off the older man's attempts to one-up him. "Come on, you know I'm a better fighter than you are. I—" his words were cut off as Fritz suddenly lurched forward and kissed him, latching onto his mouth forcefully. Gilbert froze completely, his eyes wide with shock and surprise. He was pushed back down into the couch and he couldn't help but notice how close they suddenly were, he could feel the warmth coming off of Frederick's body and feel his hair tickling his face. Every breath they took pressed their bodies closer together and he swore that he could feel his teacher's heart beating in his chest. Fritz's free hand came up to cup his face and Gilbert relaxed at the touch, his eyes fluttering closed as he melted into the kiss. His lips were so soft, but the teeth that nibbled on his lower lip a second later were hard and the bite he received made him gasp in surprise. Frederick licked at his lips and then pushed into his unresisting mouth, exploring lazily.

Gilbert shuddered and grabbed Frederick by the back of his neck and pulled him down, greedily taking him in and turning the kiss into a competition between them. He tried to bite him back and lead but it ended as abruptly as it started, with Fritz sitting up and yanking his controller out of Gilbert's limp hand. "I win!" he shouted as he unpaused the game.

For a split second Gilbert was still, his expression utterly confused, and then he leaped up. "You motherfucker!" he shrieked, trying to grab it back but it was far too late.

Frederick threw down the controller as Pikachu flew off the screen and grinned at Gilbert. "New game?" he asked teasingly, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

"No," Gilbert snapped moodily. "You'll just pull another cheap ass move like that."

"Well when you can't beat your opponent with strength then you have to use your wits and what other skills you may have," Frederick replied. He watched Gilbert pout across the couch and thought for a long moment. He reached over and turned off the Gamecube, then he waved Gilbert's attention over to him. "Why don't we play a game where we _can't _beat each other?" he suggested.

Gilbert raised an eyebrow at him. "Like what?" he asked.

Frederick's smile grew and he slipped a hand into Gilbert's pocket, making him squeak, and drew out the teen's phone. "Angry Birds?" he said, holding it up.

For a long moment Gilbert was silent, but then a wide grin broke out on his face. "You're on," he said, scooting closer.

**Transformation**

"You have got to be kidding me," Prussia said as he stared at the youth in front of him. Short, barely up to his chest, with combed back blond hair and dark eyes. The boy flinched at his gaze and averted his eyes,

"}but Prussia quickly caught him by the chin and turned his head back up.

"I'm sorry," the boy murmured, his eyes sad and downcast.

The nation raised an eyebrow. "For what, something that, according to you, you had no control over?" he asked, turning the boy's head from side to side. "Despite this, I highly doubt that you are my bird. I suggest that you start telling me the truth."

The blond bit his lip. "But I am!" he protested, looking distraught. "Gilbert, I swear it's me! I can prove it!"

"Oh?" the kingdom said, his eyebrow going higher. "Alright then, what did I say to you when I took control of the Teutonic Knights and became their leader?"

He blinked. "You said that you wanted me to take a letter to Aldrin," was the boy's prompt reply.

Gilbert paled, turning even whiter than he already was. "After that," he said, sounding choked.

"Well, as you were writing you said that things were going to be different. You said that you were going to become powerful and that you would be your own country, and that it would be the most awesome country in the world. Then you thanked me for being your friend and staying by your side—"

"Stop," Gilbert interrupted him, a look of horror slowly dawning across his face. "Stop. I believe you now." He reached out and slowly patted the boy on the head, then once again turned his head this way and that. His crimson eyes scrutinized every detail of him, as if he was trying to catch some glimpse of his faithful pet on the human's face. "How in the world did you get like this?"

Gilbird shrugged. "I don't know," he said miserably "I just remember feeling this floaty feeling and the next thing I know I wake up as a human!" He hung his head, ashamed that he could not tell him more.

"Hmm," Prussia murmured, pulling his hand away to look at the substance that was stuck to it. The same stuff that was all in Gilbird's hair. "Goddammit, this shit is faerie dust. The stuff Arthur uses to do his magic."

Gilbird made a shocked noise. "Arthur?" he squeaked in alarm. "Why would he do something like this?"

"I don't know," Prussia sighed. "He probably got drunk and started casting spells. Again." He ran his other hand through his hair and sighed in irritation. "Dammit, I can't let anyone see you. They'll ask questions and I really don't feel like explaining any of this to Fritz, he won't understand a word. But I really need to find Arthur and punch him in his face…"

"But Arthur's not our ally," Gilbird said quietly.

Gilbert rubbed his temple. "And that is the major problem," he said. He started to pace about his tent, his face pinched in worry. With each passing second he grew more and more anxious. "You might be stuck like this for a while," he said after a few minutes.

The blond protested at this. "Why? Gilbert, this form is… weird! No offense to humans or anything but you guys are so awkward! And you can't even fly." He waved his arms a little as if he was ruffling his feathers, then he flushed with embarrassment as he remembered that he didn't have them.

Gilbert reached out and patted his shoulder comfortingly. "I know, compared to birds humans are unawesome, yeah, yeah." He smirked at Gilbird glared at him. "But hey, since Arthur's not our ally I can't just go waltzing over to his place. And he has no reason to come over here, not yet anyway, so until we see him again you're stuck like this." He ruffled Gilbird's hair. "But you're freaking adorable so that's always a good thing."

Gilbird made a noise and tried to push Prussia's hand away. "Stop that! I spent so much time trying to get it back like that!" Now a few strands of his hair were sticking up, looking remarkably like fluffed up feathers. He tried to comb them back with his fingers, scowling at Gilbert, who just looked amused by the whole thing. "But how am I supposed to fit in with you guys? You're going to have to explain some things to the others."

"That I will," Prussia said, stroking his chin in thought. "But I need an excuse that won't make people suspicious."

There was a rustle as someone pushed the flap of his tent aside, and Francis suddenly popped his head in. "Well, you could just use my excuse and say that you are employing him as an adjutant," the Frenchman said with a wink.

Both of them jumped at France's appearance and Gilbert moved to hide Gilbird behind him, but then realized that it was useless. "Francis! You—" he glared at his friend, who just smiled at him. "How long have you been listening?"

"Long enough to realize that we're both in the same boat, as the English saying goes," Francis replied enigmatically, that charming smile still stuck on his face.

Prussia raised an eyebrow at him, trying to look disproving but failing miserably. "I doubt that," he said.

"Actually," Francis said, stepping fully inside the tent with another person trailing both behind him. "_Angleterre _did not hit just your bird with his magic, my dear Pierre was a victim as well."

Gilbert's jaw fell open with a pop as he looked at the man who had come in behind Francis. He was just as tall as the Frenchman, and, amazingly, just as handsome. He had a sharp, defined face and eyes that were just as dark as Gilbird's, but his hair was white and pulled back into a messy ponytail that had a few loose strands still framing his face. He had on the French uniform, which not only emphasized his lean body but also complemented his pale skin and hair. Gilbert felt his heart thump a little when he first saw the newcomer; dear gods he looked _gorgeous._ And from the smug little smile that was dancing on the corner of his lips, he knew it as well. Like master, like pet he supposed.

A little belatedly he remembered that Gilbird was still behind him. Prussia glanced down to see the blond absolutely transfixed by the sight, his eyes wide and jaw also open. He was about to pull him out of sight but Pierre had already noticed him and took only a split second of sidle up to them. "_Bonjour," _the man said, the French rolling off his tongue as smoothly as pouring oil. "Little Gilbird, I must say that your human form suits you quite well. You're almost as handsome as me~" He reached out and gently placed two of his fingers under Gilbird's chin and tilted his head upwards so he could look him in the eyes.

"Hey whoa, whoa, hands _off!" _Gilbert snapped, pulling Gilbird away and shoving him behind his back. He didn't miss the blush that had spread across Gilbird's face nor the way Pierre smirked at him. "Francis keep your damn perverted bird away from mine!"

Pierre looked hurt and France laid a comforting arm around his shoulders. "There, Pierre, Gilbert is just sensitive." France gave him a pleading look. "Just give him a chance, _mon ami, _Pierre is a very good soul. I'm sure he and Gilbird could get along perfectly if you would just let him; they could be just like us!"

Just like them? Oh hell no, that was worse. He glared at France and Pierre, threw a concerned look at Gilbird, then glared again. "No," was all he said.

**Lies**

"Of all the stupid, irresponsible, and _reckless _things I have seen you do, this has to be the worst!" Frederick was yelling, stomping up and down and all but spitting fire in his fury. His eyes were hard and cold, like chips of ice, and his booming voice echoed in the room that they were in, bouncing back and bringing small echoes of his last words to Gilbert's ears. "Running off on some damned foolish mission like that, with all of your injuries too! You didn't even leave a note or anything to tell us where you were going, what were you _thinking?" _ He finally turned and looked at his kingdom, demanding an answer.

Gilbert flinched and tried not to shrink away from that accusing gaze, even though he sorely wanted to. Right now he just wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole and hide him away from his King. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Frederick snorted derisively. "Sorry," he repeated in disgust. "The only thing you say is '_sorry.' _No explanation or even an excuse, just 'sorry!' Do you have any idea how worried we all were when you disappeared? I had Zieten and all of his hussars out looking for you, and then we find out that you merely slipped out through the window like some damned schoolboy out to see a girl and—oh for the love of heaven I'm surprised we didn't find you dead in an alley somewhere."

Gilbert squirmed in his seat and looked down at the table, hiding his face from Fritz. Visions of a certain alley swarmed in his head and phantom touches made his body shudder with disgust. Dead in an alley, dead in an alley oh gods that could have happened… Yes, he did have his reasons for leaving like he did, but he knew that none of them would satisfy his King. Frederick was just a human, he could not possibly understand the pull of the people and the overwhelming _need _to help them. Prussia knew from the moment he decided to ride off to Berlin that this speech was coming, but hearing it wasn't any less painful, especially considering what had happened in Berlin… with Russia. He swallowed and tried to push those memories out of his mind. They still lurked however, a hungry beast that was waiting for him to become vulnerable so it could sink its teeth into his heart once more. "That is indeed the only thing I can say," he murmured, still looking at the table so that his face wouldn't betray him. "An excuse will displease you and you will pick apart any explanation that I give until it loses all meaning."

The response he got was an irritated sigh and a string of French expletives that he didn't even bother to try and translate in his head. Frederick started to pace again, muttering himself and casting angry glances about as if daring the world to try and make him angrier. Gilbert watched him apprehensively, wondering what he was going to do next. He didn't think Frederick would do anything dramatic, like tying him to the wheel or something public like that; he was a Field Marshal after all. But then again Frederick didn't have to do anything at all, he already felt like shit and Fritz had a way of making him feel terrible about himself even if it wasn't his fault. The worst part was that he knew why Frederick was so mad. He had been worried out of his mind, knowing that Gilbert was still terribly injured and he was nowhere to be found, and all of that could have been avoided if Gilbert had just bothered to leave a little note behind. It wouldn't have stopped Fritz from worrying, but it would have lessened his anger. Gilbert had to look away and gazed at his clasped hands instead.

He had seen his King angry before, furious even. It was nothing new. The anger was rarely directed at him, and whenever it was he could always take it and give it back, but this time was different. Berlin had stripped something from him, some sort of essential defense that he had always needed to combat the world. He felt raw and open, like a fresh wound, and all of Fritz's words were salt being rubbed into that wound. Ivan's touch still lingered on his skin and no matter how much he scrubbed himself clean with a rare bath he still felt uncomfortable in his own body. He had been overpowered so _easily, _and only fortune had saved him that day. He still shivered to think about what might have happened if Ivan had not been distracted at the right moment and he felt his throat close up as the Russian's sadistic smile flashed in his mind.

There was a small crash as Fritz all but threw himself into a chair sitting across the table from Gilbert. He wasn't looking at his country and stared off at some picture hanging up on the wall, his jaw clenching and unclenching in anger. The cane in his hand tapped against the floor rhythmically, but other than that there was no noise at all in the room. Silence stretched between them, the irregular thumps of the cane measuring the time like a broken clock. Gilbert grew more confused by the second. He had nothing more to say to his King, and apparently Fritz had nothing to say to him, so why was Frederick keeping him here? A chill worked its way down his spine; he hadn't felt this trapped since Ivan had pushed him up against that filthy wall and held him down, and even though not a single thing was touching him now he still wanted to bolt. He wanted to hide somewhere until everything was alright and nothing would hurt him anymore, and this cold silence coming from the only person that could possibly comfort him was too much for him to bear. "Am I dismissed, then?" he asked, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. They trembled just the slightest bit.

He heard Fritz's head turn. "Yes, you are," Fritz said after a moment's pause. There was a suspicious edge to his neutral words, but Prussia ignored it.

Gilbert nodded and stood up, still carefully avoiding Fritz's eye. If he looked then all would be lost. He turned and made his way to the door, wanting to put as much distance between him and other people as possible; he wanted to be _alone. _But that would just be too easy now, wouldn't it?

He had made it halfway to the door when Fritz's voice stopped him. "Gilbert," it said, the anger gone. "Is something wrong?" There was both suspicion and a hint of worry in his tone now.

The last thing Gilbert wanted to do was tell Fritz what had happened. At least, that was what his mind said, but his heart was begging to be spilled out. He would never do that though, he would die of embarrassment if he had to tell Fritz what had happened to him, watch his King's face twist in horror as he tried to explain how he was almost _raped _(just thinking the word made him want to gag.) For a moment he didn't answer because his throat was too closed up for him to speak. "No," he finally said.

He heard the scrape of a chair being pushed back and footsteps making their way over to him. "What's wrong?" Fritz asked, his voice coming ever closer. "Gilbert, you're acting strangely."

"I said there's nothing wrong!" Gilbert snapped, heading for the door again. If he could just get out before Fritz could catch up to him…

Suddenly Fritz was stepping in front of him and blocking his way. "Do not _lie _to me, Prussia!" he yelled, his eyes flashing angrily.

He had called him Prussia; he only did that when he was being serious about something. Gilbert flinched back, the hardness in his King's voice lashing at him like a whip. "I'm not lying!" he said, but he could tell that Fritz didn't believe him. Oh gods what if he saw his face he couldn't let him see his face he couldn't let him find _out—_

"Gilbert," Fritz said, stepping closer to him. His voice was now tinged with something that Gilbert had rarely heard before: fear. "Gilbert, please, did something happen?" He now seemed truly concerned as he stepped closer to Gilbert, and the nation didn't need to look to know the hurt that flashed across his face as he moved away from his ruler. "_Liebli—"_

"Will you just stop?" Gilbert snarled, hearing his voice break and hating himself for it. "I'm just fine, I-I don't need your help!" He was trembling a little and he quickly tried to dart around Frederick, praying that he didn't notice it.

Fritz's hand shot out and grabbed him by the arm before he even noticed, spinning him around harshly as the other hand grabbed his coat. He was met by harsh blue eye that were angry, worried, and afraid at the same time. "What—" Frederick started to say.

"Don't touch me!" Gilbert shrieked, his voice shrill with fear. He leaped back and managed to slip out of Frederick's grasp, stumbling backward towards the table. Frederick's astonished expression followed every movement he made. "I-I'm sorry," he stammered out, feeling his resistance crumble as he looked into those wounded eyes. He felt terrible because he knew that Frederick was just trying to help him and he had rudely pushed him away, but those hands on him, they had grabbed him and he had jumped at every touch ever since that day. "Just, please Fritz, I—don't touch me. N-not so suddenly like that." Oh gods, Frederick was going to find out. He wasn't going to let him leave until he had wrung the truth out of him. Gilbert could feel it coming, and the tremble had taken over his whole body now and he fought valiantly against the tears that were building up in his eyes. He stumbled blindly into a chair and fell into it, glad for the support, and then he hid his face in his hands, unable to look at Frederick anymore.

He felt so _pathetic. _Pathetic and weak. That's all he was, this pathetic excuse of a nation that had let a little incident like this affect him so much. He was the Awesome Prussia, goddammit, he shouldn't be this fragile, it was stupid!

He heard footsteps coming towards him once more, infinitely soft and careful, the same way one would approach a wild animal that might bolt. They stopped right in front of him and there was a small rustle of fabric as Fritz knelt down. "What happened to you?" Frederick whispered, his hands coming up to his, barely touching him. Fingers gently petted his hair and the other hand curled around one of his, trying to pry it away from his face. "Gilbert, please, tell me what happened."

Prussia shook his head slightly, making the fingers brush his scalp lightly. It felt good, but it wasn't enough to calm him down. He could feel the sobs in his throat and he bit his lip to stop himself from making a sound; it felt like he was about to shatter into a thousand pieces any second. He felt the tears start to trickle out of his eyes despite every effort he made to keep them in, but he refused to make a sound. Frederick's hands gripped his wrists and suddenly yanked them away from his face, leaving him exposed to the world. He saw Frederick's frown drop instantly at the sight of him. "What's wrong?" Fritz asked, bringing up his hand to wipe the tears away from his face. Gilbert flinched at the touch. "_Liebling, _why are you crying?"

A part of him wanted to tell Frederick so _badly, _but another part wanted to him to keep silent for the rest of his life. How could he tell him? How could he force himself to say how weak he had become, that a single other nation could so easily overpower him? How could he look Frederick in the eye and tell him exactly what happened in Berlin? The answer was he couldn't. He couldn't because he was a coward and he always would be and he didn't even deserve to be here, he should just crawl into a hole somewhere and die. Even though he kept trying to look away, Frederick still caught his head in his hands and forced him to look up, even though that sent tremors wracking through his body.

His King noticed, if the return of his frown was any indication. "Did something happen in Berlin?" he pressed on, growing more troubled by the second. "Gilbert, what are you not telling me?"

"I'm sorry," Gilbert choked out again, his breaths heaving as he fought to keep his cries in. It was as if he wasn't even in control of his own body anymore, and something else was controlling words and actions. "I'm so sorry, I couldn't, I didn't—Russia was just—" he broke off with a pathetic squeak as the first of his sobs clawed its way out of his throat.

"Russia?" Frederick said, immediately latching onto the name he had heard. "He was there?" Memories of Kunersdorf came flooding back to him and he felt his stomach twist almost painfully. "Gilbert, what did he do to you?" he demanded, his voice wavering as he tried to keep from shouting. He gripped Prussia by the shoulders and pushed him back so that he could fully look at him, and the sinking feeling in him grew when Gilbert made a frightened noise and flinched away from his hands, almost curling in on himself as he tried to avoid him. He didn't want to be touched, Gilbert had said that earlier.

No touching…

…Oh no. Oh no no no nono_no. _

"Gilbert," he said. His tone made Prussia glance up in shock and Prussia could immediately tell that his King knew, or at least suspected, what had happened. There was a slow dawning horror coming across Frederick's face, one that he was trying desperately to control. "Gilbert," he repeated, his voice tight. "Please don't tell me that…that he…" he couldn't finish, but the words still hung in the air around them, the elephant in the room.

Gilbert shook his head quickly and watched Frederick slump with relief. "He never got that far," he murmured. His words still trembled a little. "But he, he still…" he plopped his head into one of his hands again. "If he had not gotten distracted then he would have. I couldn't stop him, I was just so weak and—" His words were cut off by a uniform pressing against his face as Fritz wrapped his arms around him and hugged him close. He didn't flinch away, which surprised him because it was a form of contact after all.

Fritz wound his hand into the back of his head and gently stroked his hair. His other hand stayed on his back, supporting him. "Tell me what happened," Fritz whispered, his breath tickling Gilbert's ear. "Tell me everything."

But he didn't _want _to. Some part of him still feared Frederick's reaction, although the fact that he was holding him like this was silencing that voice. It was…nice. Warm and comforting and _safe, _something that he hadn't felt in gods-know how long. He felt his resistance crumbling, and the next thing he knew he was babbling, telling Fritz everything that had happened to him from the moment he rode into Berlin. Fritz didn't say a word the whole way through and continued to run a hand through his hair, occasionally nuzzling him when his voice broke and he had to stop for breath. He couldn't tell Fritz everything; when he tried to describe what Ivan had done to him he stumbled and had to use the barest amount of words to tell him, but the memories still came flooding to him. Ivan's sadistic giggle lingered in the back of his mind and he found himself shivered and stuttering to a stop, unable to hold back his tears any longer.

Frederick didn't speak when Gilbert buried his head into his shoulder and cried, true sobs that came from somewhere deep inside of him and made him sound like some sort of wounded animal. He just held him and ran his fingers through the albino's silvery hair, waiting for him to calm down like he always would. It took a long time, and near the end of it Gilbert felt like a wrung out washcloth, unable to cry anymore simply because he had wasted all of his tears. He made a noise of distress when he saw the wet marks on Fritz's collar and shoulder, but his King tightened his grip around him to let him know that it was alright. "I'm going to kill him," Frederick murmured, the first words he had spoken since Gilbert began his story.

Gilbert blinked in shock, his gasps pausing. "What?" he asked in disbelief.

"Exactly what I said. I'm going to kill him for hurting you like this," Frederick replied, his voice like sharpened steel. Gilbert then realized that Fritz was shaking too, but he doubted that it was from sadness or fear. "And you can keep quiet about your silly little nation immortality thing. He will never touch you again, love. I swear."

There was that hard tone to his voice, the one which meant that he was utterly serious, no matter what he saying. Gilbert sniffled a little and nodded, not in the mood to argue anyway. He let himself rest against Fritz, melting into his warm and solid embrace, and he knew that he could stay like that for as long as he needed to. Frederick would always be there for him, no matter where they were or what the circumstances were. They still had each other.

**Prince**

The air was stagnant and hot, with the full wrath of summer blazing down without a single cloud to block the sun's rays. It had driven many inside and those who were forced to stay outside had to suffer in the heat, all of them praying for some sort of relief whether it be a small wisp of a cloud or a welcome breeze to sweep the stifling heat away. Some of them sought their own refuge, however.

The trees overhead gave a perfect shade of their own from the sun, and the way they were clustered so closely together gave a semblance of privacy to those who wanted to sit on the bank of the river. It was a perfect spot for a prince and a soldier trying to escape the hell that was the current summer in Prussia. The river bubbled nearby as if beckoning them to jump in, and apart from the sound of the water and the occasional bird the place was utterly silent around them. Fritz and Katte were both lying on their backs and staring up through the canopy above them. Fritz had taken off his coat and was laying right on the grass dressed in the clothes underneath it, which would have brought howls of rage from his father if he had seen the state of dress his son was in. Frederick would have also bundled the coat under his head to use as a pillow if it hadn't been for Katte—who couldn't stand by and let the Prussian uniform be defiled in front of him—and it was due to his insistence that the current article of clothing was draped safely over a branch, free of dirt and grass stains. Katte couldn't be persuaded to step out of his uniform for anything though, and he was still fully dressed, except for his boots.

They were both shoeless, since they had been wading in the river before stepping out for a brief break. The water had been wonderfully cold and relaxing and Frederick found himself as contented as he could possibly be; he had really done a good thing when he had accepted Katte's offer to go down by the river with him. Apparently this was a special hiding place of the lieutenant, or so he had said. It was nice and serene, something he rarely got inside of his own home.

While Fritz was peaceful, Katte was plucking at his breastplate in irritation. It was damnably hot out here, and the armor was doing nothing but trapping the heat in like an oven. He gnawed at his lower lip, a dilemma coming to him. The thought of taking off his uniform was almost repulsive to him, since a soldier was expected to appear in it at all times, but he saw that his dear prince had no regard for that rule (as he did a lot of other things) and it was just the two of them alone. He still pondered it for a few long minutes before he finally gave up and, with a sigh of irritation, started to undo the belts that were holding his armor in place.

Frederick's head turned at the noise and a smirk stretched across his lips when he saw Katte peeling off his armor and laying it carefully beside him. "Finally seeing things my way, hmm?" he asked smugly.

"Oh be quiet," Katte replied, stretching his arms over his head and secretly reveling in the freedom he now had in his movements. God that armor could be stifling, in more ways than one, too.

The prince just chuckled in amusement and locked his fingers behind his head, resting in them comfortably. "Thank you for showing me this place," he said suddenly, his smirk morphing into a smile. "It's very nice here."

Katte gave him a look. "You're welcome," he said. "I thought that you would like it." He sat up so that he could fully stretch, and he swore that he could feel Frederick's eyes roving over every inch of him. Frederick sat up as well and scooted closer to him.

"How did you find this place?" the teen asked curiously, plopping himself right down next to him.

A chuckle left him as he remembered, causing Frederick to frown in puzzlement. "My horse got away from me," Katte explained with a smile. "I chased him to this place and I thought it looked like a nice resting spot. I started coming back here when I wanted some peace and quiet and, well, no one else knew that it was here so it also became a hiding place of mine. Now it's yours as well." He casually slipped an arm around Frederick's shoulders to pull him closer and almost jumped out of his skin when Frederick yelped and flinched in response. His thick eyebrows came together in a scowl. "Let me see that," he said, pulling the prince back to him.

Frederick squirmed nervously. "It's not that bad—" he tried to say, but it was obvious that Katte wasn't listening to him. He went still as Katte pulled down the back of his collar to expose his neck and some of his shoulders.

Katte held in his breath so that he wouldn't gasp out loud, then released it slowly. "Well, it's not as big as the last one," he said, forcing himself to sound light even though his stomach was twisting. "It really shouldn't be that color though." His hand hovered over the long, thin bruise that started from Frederick's shoulder blade and went to the back of his neck, but he knew that it wouldn't be a good idea to touch it. "What was it this time? The cane makes bigger marks than this." Lord knows that he had seen enough of them to tell.

"He threw a plate at me," Frederick mumbled, grinding the heel of his foot into the grass. "He was aiming for my head." An explosive sigh left him, and Katte could tell that the peace they had wasn't going to be returning any time soon. "I don't get it, Katte. What is it that I do that makes him hate me so much?" he demanded, pulling his shirt back up to hide the mark. "God, even when I try to do what he says he always finds something to pick or nag at, it's so damned frustrating. And then when the people around him don't immediately start bending to his will out comes the cane to break them into surrendering."

Hearing his King being spoken about with such scorn was making his stomach churn uneasily and he almost glanced around to make sure that no one could overhear them. "Well, maybe you shouldn't antagonize him so much, then," Katte said, feeling as if he was foolishly sticking his hand in a fire.

"_I _antagonize him?" Fritz demanded, whipping his head around. "Katte do you hear yourself? What in the world do I do to make him hit me like this?"

"Well, hitting you is quite extreme, but you certainly go out of your way to irritate him. You curl your hair like a Frenchman, you refuse to wear the Prussian uniform unless he threatens you and you call it a 'shroud,' you sneak off all the time to do what you want, and you smuggle books and your flute into your room. I'm not saying that you should get rid of any of that stuff, but I'm just pointing out that he certainly doesn't go into his rages around you for no reason."

"Well if you don't want me to stop then why are you even saying anything?" Frederick asked dismally, leaning back into Katte's arm until his head was resting on his shoulder. "I get your point, but I simply cannot stop myself. All of those things make me happy, Katte, and I already have so little in this hellish place. The least I can do is keep my happiness." He rubbed his forehead a little almost as if he had a headache.

Katte sighed sadly, slipping his arm around Frederick's waist and pulling them back down again. "And it would be terrible of me if I would tell _mein Prinz _to change his ways, especially if those ways make him happy," he said, hugging him closer. "But can you please, for my sake, try _not _to deliberately get him mad? Ah, I know he starts most of those arguments, but please don't snap back at him. I hate that every time I see you there's a new bruise to show your sufferings."

Frederick's answer was an annoyed grumble. "It's much easier to say it that to actually do it, Katte. You're not the one who has to live with him." The grip around him tightened and Katte's hand started to run up and down his side and he felt himself relaxing. "Oh fine, I'll _try," _he said in annoyance._ "_I cannot guarantee that my attempts will be met with any success though."

"Well, at least that's a start," Katte replied, smiling and giving his prince a quick peck on the forehead before settled back down again, hugging him closer as if he was a giant pillow.

**Lonely**

This was completely idiotic. Frederick didn't even know what he was doing in these rooms.

_That one's easy, you fool, _that small, sarcastic voice in the back of his head whispered gleefully. _You're here because these are Gilbert's rooms, and they remind you of him. Come on, you should have known that one._

_Shut up. _Did everyone get a second voice in their head as they got older? It was annoying in the extreme, although he had learned to live with it. This time, it was right. Again. That was the most annoying, when it was right.

The old king made his way over to one of the chairs in front of the fireplace and sat in it slowly. The furniture even smelled old, even though the servants came in and dusted it every day. His sharp eyes could see no new creases in the plush of the chair, the wood was too polished and not covered with any fingerprints, as all the furniture was, and the whole room was far too bare of any personal items to hint that it was being used by someone. Yet Frederick still refused to give the rooms up to someone because these rooms were still Gilbert's according to him, just like they had been ever since he built Sanssouci. Not to mention he didn't even have enough friends here who would fill the vacancies anyway. He settled deeper into his chair and reached into one of his pockets with methodical care. A paper came out clutched in his hand, and he slowly unfolded it, the softened lines hinting that the paper had been folded and unfolded many times in this same fashion.

The parchment itself was stained and dirtied. Whatever surface it had been written on had not been the cleanest thing in the world, and there was a dark smudge on one of the corners that looked like mud. There were also splotches of water in some spots, most likely from Gilbird's journey across the ocean and when the moisture had leaked through parts of the envelope. The ink was still legible, however, so wherever Gilbert had been when he wrote it there certainly wasn't any danger or else he would have rushed the job. Frederick's gray-blue eyes swept over the letter for what felt like the hundredth time, once again reading the words that he could probably recite by heart now. His index finger absently traced the letters, marking out their familiarity. There was that overly large first letter, which no doubt was something left over from the nation's time as a scribe for the church. Although the text was quite modern in its appearance, upon closer inspection one could see that some of the words had barely visible angles and points to them, yet again from the older times when writing had been more angular. Frederick could recognize the handwriting anywhere, he had seen it countless times during his life and right now it was the only thing he had that connected him to Gilbert, aside from these rooms.

It had been eight months since Gilbert had left for America, and apparently six of those months had been spent in freezing winter quarters without adequate supplies. Only recently had the army started to move, and as a consequence Gilbert's letters had become fewer in number as his free time was absorbed with dealing with the soldiers. The letter in his hand was three and a half weeks old, and from the date it was written and the time Frederick received it, it had only taken Gilbird three days to fly the distance that separated the two of them. He had sent the bird on its way with a reply of his own, and he still had yet to get another. It was… disconcerting to be faced with such a long silence, and the longer it stretched on the worse he felt.

Eight months. Eight whole months since the last time he had seen his love, or spoken to him. The last time he had been separated from Gilbert for so long was after his imprisonment in Küstrin and the time he spent in Rheinsburg. But after he became King, Gilbert always stuck close to his side, and he doubted that since then they had ever been parted from each other's company for more than a week. And now here he was, without his kingdom's presence for months and months. It felt so strange and so unnatural to him, as if the sun was no longer in the sky or one of his hands had been cut off. There was always a part of him that ached, no matter how hard he tried to deny or ignore it.

He sighed and folded the letter up again, slipping it back into his pocket and looking around. There were a few things of Gilbert's scattered here and there, things that he didn't bother to take to America because he thought that he wouldn't need them. A few of his books, quills, all but one of his pipes, bits of clothing that he left behind since he didn't need extras. Prussia's rooms here had always been sparse, all of his actual belongings being stored in his mansion. That made it difficult to find anything in the room that reminded him of the albino. With another sigh he stood up and paced around the room, glancing out of the window as he passed, which provided an excellent view of the gardens, and stopping at the side of the bed. He stared at the covers for a long moment before sat on top of them and plopped his head into the pillow tiredly. Gods he felt drained, and that scent was—

That scent. He recognized it immediately, sat up a little to throw a dubious look at the pillows. Gilbert had not been in this bed for quite a long while and apparently the covers hadn't been dirty enough to wash, so the faint scent of him still lingered. Frederick laid back down and buried his face into the fabric, inhaling deeply. He could smell lush pine groves and freshly grown grass, overlapped with the sweet tang of pipe tobacco and the caustic odor of gunpowder, the latter of which always seemed to linger around Gilbert whether they were at war or not. There was also an underlying hint of cornflowers and lemons. The lemons always surprised him the most since he knew that Gilbert had a fondness for sweet things, so watching him casually suck on a lemon slice or squeeze it into his tea was always contradictory to what people knew about him. Still, the sharp citrus smell was something that he would not find anywhere else in the palace, so it was something uniquely Gilbert's and would always remind him of the nation whenever he caught a whiff of it.

...He was being stupid. Was he reduced to smelling his lover's furniture for a simple reminder of him? He must look ridiculous lying like this. Yet he couldn't bring himself to move. Sometimes his heart won over his head and the ache in his chest was soothed whenever he breathed in that faint but familiar scent. To him it always meant safeness and security; he remembered when he was a small child and after his father would beat him he ran to Gilbert for comfort, and he remembered the smell of gunpowder and lemons and pine as he cried into Gilbert's jacket and Gilbert would soothe him by stroking his hair and murmuring sweet nonsense to him. Every time Gilbert pressed closer for a hug or a kiss he would smell it for a brief moment, and whenever he fell asleep against the soldier the fragrance would fill his head even in his dreams.

The French word for loneliness was solitude. For once, and perhaps only once, Frederick preferred the German word over the French, but not a single soul would know it. Einsamkeit was such a shaper sounding word, and sharp was the exact feeling that came to mind whenever his chest ached as if someone had just stabbed him. Loneliness was a harsh feeling, and einsamkeit was an appropriately harsh word to describe it. Sharp and hard and so very painful sometimes. The king grabbed one of the pillows and brought it closer to his face, inhaling so deeply that for a moment he thought that he could taste Gilbert as well. The warmth that flooded through him at that brought a silly little smile to his face, and he sat up feeling a lot better than he had a few seconds ago. His smile soon faded when he realized that he would have to leave the room soon. He still had his duties, after all.

Frederick plucked at the pillow moodily and glanced around the room. Yes, it was indeed bare. Even the wall decorations were a little bland, since Gilbert had refused to let the designers make his room the same as everyone else's. The gilded vines and leaves were kept to a minimum, just enough so that it wouldn't look out of place or miserly compared to the other rooms, and yet Gilbert still complained to Frederick about his "sissy tastes" when he first saw it. The king chuckled at the memory and his eyes landed on the dresser next to the bed. Curious, he reached over and slid open the top drawer and suppressed a groan of frustration when he saw what was inside. Cravats. Of course. Over thirty years he had been king and he still couldn't convince Gilbert to just take them along. He pulled one out and examined it, letting the soft cloth run through his fingers. He hoped that Gilbert at least had one with him over there, and he prayed that Steuben was good-headed enough to convince Gilbert to wear one if he didn't. Frederick pulled the cravat closer to his face and noticed that the lemon and tobacco smell was on that as well, just barely tangible. He bit his lower lip as a thought came to him, and he twirled his own cravat around a finger, playing with it idly.

Heart won out again. Before he could think and rationalize himself out of it, his fingers were swiftly undoing the buttons to his collar and yanking out the knot his necktie was in. Then, with the ease of someone who had done this too many times to count, he slipped the new cravat over his neck and retied it, barely having to think about what he was doing. As he buttoned his collar back up he caught a snatch of the scent, and a giddy smile came over his face as his muscles automatically relaxed. Well, no one would notice if a few of Gilbert's cravats went missing.

…They probably weren't observant enough to notice if someone took one of the pillows out of his room as well.

**Nickname**

"Why do you let him do that?"

"Hmm?" Frederick lowered his cup of coffee to give Schwerin an inquisitive stare. "Elaborate, if you would please."

Schwerin gave a nod to Prussia's retreating figure. "Field Marshal Beilschmidt. He always calls you Fritz, and nothing else. No 'Your Majesty' or 'Your Highness' like the rest of us do, not even a simple Frederick. Sometimes he says 'My King,' as odd as that sounds, and even when he does then _you _look uncomfortable. Why is that?"

"I don't mind being called Fritz," the king replied with a gentle smile, raising his cup back to his lips.

"By the soldiers," Schwerin said, his expression still confused. "But with nobles or us it has to be 'Your Majesty' or at the very least your full name. With our noble country though, you don't even blink when he calls you Fritz. Why is that so?"

Frederick set the cup back down on the table and stared at it contemplatively, for a moment his eyes gazing inward. "It's always been like that, I suppose," he answered at last, his eyes amused and his smile apologetic.

The old field marshal looked even more lost. "Always? What do you mean?" he asked.

Frederick tilted his head a little, carefully picking out his words. "Ever since I've known Prussia I've always been 'Fritz' to him. When I was but a child it was an affectionate name he gave me and I saw nothing wrong with it seeing as that was what most everyone called me when I was little. Growing up, more people started to call me 'Your Highness' or Frederick, but he didn't. It never occurred to me to tell him to stop, because it felt right when he said it, if you know what I mean. Gilbert was always one of the few friends I had while growing up and the only one besides my sister who I never lost connection to and hearing him say Frederick is strange to me. It sounds far too cold and impersonal and I'm too used to hearing Fritz come from his lips." His smile grew wider and he had to suppress a chuckle at the memories. When he first became King the first name out of Gilbert's mouth was "My King," then it turned into Frederick. Both of the names were completely alien and strange coming from Gilbert, and he almost begged the albino to keep calling him Fritz.

Schwerin regarded him with an almost scrutinizing gaze and Frederick could tell that he still did not completely understand, but was trying not to bombard him with questions. "What about your other friends?" he went on. "Rarely have I heard them call you any nicknames."

"They do," Frederick said smoothly. "You are never around when they do, and you spend a lot of your company around the other generals. On duty you must remember that I outrank you, so Your Majesty is the appropriate title to use."

"And? You outrank the soldiers."

"They're soldiers, and most of them are civilians anyway. They can call me what they like, as long as it isn't the fool." Fritz picked up his cup again, but paused and gave Schwerin a look. "You can call me Fritz too, if you would like," he said before taking another sip.

Schwerin almost started sputtering, his eyes growing huge as he stared at his unperturbed king. Fritz? To call him that silly little nickname, instead of his proper rank or title, as if he weren't their royal King was almost unthinkable to him. He had been trained in proper social etiquette ever since he had been old enough to learn, and you never demeaned a sovereign in any way, it rebelled against everything he had ever been told.

Frederick barked out a laugh and wagged a finger at him. "Now look at you!" he teased. "You constantly prod me about others calling me by my nickname, but whenever I offer you the chance, why, you're completely mortified!"

He felt his ears growing warm from embarrassment. "Oh be quiet, _Fritz," _he snapped, almost flinching as he said the name.

The monarch laughed in delight, and Schwerin was struck by how cheery and playful it sounded. It was almost contagious seeing his friend in such a happy mood. "There you go!" Fritz said, his smile now warm instead of teasing. "Do it enough times and you'll get used to it, except only when we're not on duty. When we are I'm still your King, like I've always been." He winked at the marshal as if he was sharing some sort of secret and he finished off the rest of his coffee, apparently undisturbed by the fact that Schwerin hadn't yet replied to him.

Schwerin almost fiddled with his cravat and pondered over what Frederick had just said. No, he didn't think he'd ever get used to calling him that, even if it would be nice to.

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><p><strong>AN: Criminally late chapter, yes, but hopefully it was awesome enough to make up for it? :'D**

**Words:**** I've wanted to do something on Frederick's Parchwitz Address for a really long time, since I freaking love that speech. Fritz was just being his usual badass self before Leuthen and I was just UNF and had to write it ** **I understand that this is probably not what he said word for word, but I've seen at least three different versions of the speech so bear with me ** **  
>Fritz really did do all of the things Prussia suggested. The soldiers were given a good round of brandy to cheer them up, along with some extra meat and bread, and soldiers that were usually separated were allowed to roam free and mingle. His soldiers from Rossbach were so cheerful from their recent victory that they soon had everyone else pretty dang happy as well ^_^ And of course Fritz did his usual routine of talking to his soldiers and also promising money rewards for whoever captured some cannons XD<br>Fun fact: Fritz really did have a green diamond ring. He mentioned it in his will. :)**

**God:**** Well, first up, Mother Earth is not mine, but belongs to my amazing DA friend, RyuuseiRosuto. She asked for me to do a story featuring her OC, and this was the best I could come up with... I'm not very good at writing other people's characters.  
>And I dunno, the idea of Fritz threatening Mother Earth herself for Gilbert sent me into giggles XD It's...well it's touching but oddly cute in my head.<br>****Insanity:**** ...ehehe, I'm so screwed up XDDD But I LOVE THIS SO MUCH ** **Oh, how I love writing crazy stuff and hallucinations; it's a weakness of mine XD Not to mention I was still on a crazy/gore craze because I had recently written a Edgar Allan Poe-esque story for my school magazine and, well, decided to work the rest of it off. But oh, my wonderful and yet creepy music, thank you for creeping me out so that I could write this correctly.  
>Of course no one really knows what Fritz actually saw in his cell when he got sick and went crazy for a while, so I was free to make up my own stuff. Considering the fact that he was feeling pretty guilty and absolutely terrified of his father at that moment, it was easy to get a few pointers. But honestly, swear to gods, about half this prompt wrote itself XD Things like his father appearing with Gilbert's sword and Katte trying to drag him under the blood literally popped right into my head as I was writing and had to be added in. Ah, how refreshing this prompt was~<strong>

**Porn: The ironic thing is these next three prompts are all based on pictures I've seen on DA, so I can't link you to them****XD But come on, we all know Gilbert probably bugs the hell out of Ludwig with stuff like this on a daily basis~**

**Gamers:****I will admit that in the Gakuken verse having Fritz and Gilbert sitting around and beating the hell out of each other in Super Smash Bros (Melee, thank you very much) in a huge headcanon of mine XD It's just so adorable and so them~ And since Fritz is the manipulative bastard we all know and love he likes to use his special "skills" to help him win a game.  
><strong>  
><strong>Transformation:<strong>** Alright THIS is pure and utter crack and I have to thank RyuuseiRosuto yet again for this one because I had no clue what to write for the dang prompt. She made a pic oh human!Kumajiro/human!Gilbird which reminded me of my secret Pierre/Gilbird pairing that I have (and Gilbert/Pierre because reasons) XD And so I was convinced to write...this thing. Pure and utter crack and do not take the random bird to human transformations in the middle of the First Silesian War too seriously XD**

**Lies:**** Well, now that I've finally gotten this annoying plot bunny out of my system I feel a heck of a lot better XD This seriously was bugging me to be written, no matter how silly and pathetic Prussia turned into in it. I think it's a rather fitting sequel to "Answer," I mean come on did you really think Fritz wasn't going to find out? XD  
>Of course how in the world Fritz is gonna kill Russia, or even if he does it at all, is up for debate but oh well. I don't have plans to write that anyway.<br>**  
><strong>Prince:<strong>** YES! Finally I've written these two just being cute and fluffy with each along with a side dish of angst. Thank gods XDD Writing the constant angst for them gets kinda annoying after a while. ** **Oh and when Frederick means he'll "try" he's really saying "I'll do it for about a week or two then we'll fall into the same old pattern." Poor Katte must want to hit his head against a wall sometimes.  
><strong>_**"Who would have thought that summers here could be so hot? Luckily I have a nice private place we can cool off at, down by the river."**_**  
>Ever since I wrote that line in "Insanity" I've been dying to do a story that shows the actual place Katte was referring to, and what the two of them did there xD After all everyone has to have a good place to hide from ol' Frederick William and his slowly improving aim with kitchen supplies.<br>**  
><strong>Lonely:<strong>** Angstfluff. I'm calling this angstfluff because it's angsty yet kind of fluffy too xD I actually had two ideas for this, writing Fritz as you see here or writing a fic with Prussia based off of Rammstein's "Ohne Dich," which is a beautifully sad song that fits the prompt so well XD I chose Fritz though because one I like making him angst and two you don't see him angsting as much. At least, not as badly as Prussia does *coughLiescough*  
>Yeah my headcanon Gilbo even has his own scent. Go figure. No idea where even half of the smells come from, but whenever I think of Gilbo I get the feeling that he would smell like pine needles and lemons and gunpowder, and everything else was just extra stuff I added in after a moment's thought. Makes me wonder where he gets them all from XDD<br>Gaah, Gilbo being gone for so many years to help America in the Revolution. Poor Fritz must have felt so terrible, since all of his friends are dying after all XD It's turned him into a pillow stealer. Like to see how he explained **_**that**_** one to anyone who caught him XD**

**Words: …Schwerin, why don't you have longer conversations with Fritz in my head? You two are awesome together and you need to talk about your feelings more *shot* Kidding but seriously, shortest prompt ever and I feel bad about it. But hey, I got a headcanon of mine written down so I'm happy with it~**


	20. Coffee - Jiggle

***VIOLENTLY RESUSCITATES* **

**I haven't written these stories in so long that I actually feel terrible and pretty disgusted with myself, actually. So much so that I only have eight prompts in here but I want people to read my stuff again ;-; Some of this has actually been sitting around forever on my computer while others I only recently typed after they sat in my notebook forever. x.x Honestly I got so caught up in real life stuff that I stopped writing _anything _for a very long time until a fit of despair made me fall back on old habits, which is writing to make myself feel better. So here you go guys, I don't know when the next chapter will be here but I am still writing and want to finish these prompts. (Fun fact you can see my writing styles shift I think.)**

* * *

><p><strong>Coffee<strong>

Prussia peered curiously down the halls, his brow furrowed in slight worry as he looked for his King. No such luck. This was the fourth place he had looked for Fritz and yet again he did not see him. Where the hell was he?! Not in his rooms, the gardens, or the halls, so where the hell else could he be? He made his way down the corridor, glancing around suspiciously, and noticed at the end of the hall that a few servants were running about. They looked frightened over something, which immediately had him striding over.

A few of them shrank away in fear when they saw him, but most of them looked nervous. "Do any of you know where the King is?" he demanded when he got close enough. Short and to the point, that was him.

They exchanged glances. "He can't see anyone right now, General Beilschmidt," one of the servants said. "His Majesty is...unwell."

Gilbert's heart leaped into his throat. "What's wrong with him?!" he said, his voice snapping like a whip. "Where is he?"

The man jumped but otherwise remained calm. "I'm sorry, General," he said, his voice pleading. "But it would be much better if you would wait until His Majesty was feeling better."

Gilbert narrowed his eyes and the man squirmed uncomfortably under the piercing crimson gaze. "I did not ask whether or not it was a good idea to see him," Gilbert said slowly. "I asked: Where. Is. He?" The last few words turned into a threatening growl and his lips curled back almost like an angry dog's.

Obviously knowing when he was overruled, and too terrified to say no for a third time, the servant merely bowed and started to walk away, pushing through the others with Gilbert close on his heels. "His Majesty is in his music room," he explained as they made their way down the adjoining hall. "But I warn you yet again that he's not quite, erm, well." He looked uncertain. "General Beilschmidt, could you please not breathe a word of this to anyone? I'm sorry but it would be highly embarrassing if anyone else knew about this."

"I will not," Gilbert said shortly. "Just take me to him."

The man nodded and stopped outside of the double doors that Gilbert knew led into the King's personal music room. Much to the nation's surprise, he merely turned the knob and opened the door, all without knocking first. "He doesn't answer if you knock," the servant explained. Prussia nodded and stepped into the room and he heard the door shut behind him.

Since it was in the afternoon, the sunlight had filtered in through the large windows and gave everything a shiny, glowing appearance. The rich gold decorations on the walls twinkled brightly and the red plush chairs were caught in the light; for a moment the whole thing looked like something out of a painting. Then he heard a voice murmuring and instantly recognized it as Frederick's. Looking around, he saw his King seated in a chair, facing another, empty chair, with a cup of coffee in one hand and his flute in the other. Whatever the hell he was talking to was anyone's guess. Already feeling a little disturbed, Gilbert stepped closer, the heels of his boots clicking loudly against the polished floor. As he approached, Fritz's words became clearer.

"Well yes, that's what he said, but he always says weird things. Sometimes I think his mind is off in a completely different world from ours, or he's seeing the world in a totally different view from everyone else around him. I know he is quite enthusiastic about his new work but when I took a peek at it all he was talking about was some sort of animated statue that only had the sense of smell with him. What kind of use is that, and why smell? Smell is a useful sense on occasion but he went on to say how smell can link you to memories and pain and such and ah, it was indeed rather confusing. Almost confusing as geometry, but nowhere near as useless. I can't calculate all of those charts and curves and graphs, but I'm pretty damned sure that seventeen-thousand rix-dollars are of more value to the academy than thirteen." He took a sip of his coffee then, tapping his flute against his leg in what might have been frustration. "And then Euler tries to tell me of the usefulness of geometry and yet when he is given the opportunity to prove it he fails miserably. My fountain _still _has no running water in it and it just sits there, no better than a pond. Bah, geometry." He sipped his coffee again.

All throughout Frederick's little rant Gilbert felt himself growing colder and colder, unease twisting his gut almost painfully. It wasn't that Fritz was ranting, he always did, but he was _talking to the chair. _There was _no one _there. He stood by Frederick's chair and tapped him on the shoulder.

Frederick jumped and turned a little, but when he saw who it was he relaxed and a huge smile came over his face. It was entirely too wide and showed almost all of his teeth. "Ah, Gilbert! I didn't hear you come in!" he said cheerfully. "How are you doing today?"

As if he wasn't creeped out enough already… it was the damn smile. "I'm fine, thank you," he said carefully, eyeing Fritz up and down. "Are you doing well?"

"Fine, fine!" Frederick replied, waving the flute around a little. "Everything is just fine. I feel great, excited I would daresay." He giggled, good gods he _giggled, _and went to sip from his cup once more and seemed very surprised that there was nothing left. He turned the cup upside down and shook it a little, frowning when nothing happened. "Gilbert, will you be a dear and fetch me that pot, please?" he said, pointing absently to a nearby table.

Gilbert frowned as well and followed where he was pointing, eyeing the elegant porcelain pot suspiciously. Wait a moment, was his King still trying to finish that ridiculous experiment of his? "How many cups of coffee have you had today?" he asked as he reached for the pot and lifted the lid. There was still some coffee left inside, just enough for a cup.

Frederick shrugged carelessly. "I don't know," he said nonchalantly, "I haven't counted." He held out his hand for the pot.

That was synonymous for "I've had so many that I lost count." Gilbert turned around and almost dropped the pot in shock when he looked right into Fritz's eyes for the first time. They were a sharp, piercing, extraordinary blue, almost unnaturally blue. But they only looked that way because the rest of Frederick's eyes were an angry red, which was what made his eyes stand out so much. "Have you slept at all?" the nation demanded.

Fritz's smile grew into a smirk, smug and so victorious that Gilbert could have bathed himself in it. "Nope~" Frederick singsonged, beckoning impatiently at him with his fingers. "I'm on my third day now! As you would say, it's awesome." His movements got more erratic. "Gilbert, coffee. Now."

Gilbert held the pot closer to him, still not giving up. "How many _pots _of this stuff have you consumed, then?" he asked instead.

Fritz sighed explosively and gave him an annoyed glare, but he stood his ground. "Seven," Fritz said confidently, but a moment later he grew thoughtful. "No, wait. I think it was… I think—eight. Yes, it had to be eight. I really can't remember, I know it had to be more than five." He rubbed his temple, almost knocking his flute against his head as he did.

Prussia gulped and quickly tried to do the math in his head. For the past few days, Fritz had been struck with an idea that Prussia could only regard as completely mad and ridiculous. He wanted to see if it was possible for a person to survive without sleep. Gilbert knew from his own experience that it was impossible, and that it didn't matter how many days you stayed up, you were going to fall asleep eventually, but no matter how many times he argued his point Frederick still insisted on trying it. He was actually doing pretty well, since he knew that Fritz slept much better in Sanssouci than anywhere else, but it was still a terrible idea. Eight pots of coffee. That was roughly five cups per pot, so that was a total of about forty cups, all within a single day.

Gott in Himmel.

"Fritz, I think you should stop drinking this," he said, setting the pot back on the table.

He wasn't even facing Fritz and he felt the glare prickle the back of his neck. "I did not ask for your opinion. I asked that you kindly hand it over," Fritz replied, his voice cold and clipped.

Gilbert walked back over to where his King was sitting. He reached for the cup Fritz still had in his hand. "Give me that. I'll get you so—_aaaahh!" _He leaped back and held his hand, staring at Fritz with wide, astonished eyes. He had bitten him. His king had just _bitten _him like a dog. What the _hell?! _

Frederick was unperturbed and still glared at him. "Don't you dare tell me what to do," he growled, pointing his flute at him as if it was a weapon. "I did not ask for your advice nor do I require it." His eyes narrowed suddenly. "You're trying to sabotage me, aren't you?"

Oh now what? "What in the world are you talking about?" Gilbert demanded angrily. "Sabotage _what? _This isn't even important enough for sabotage, it's not like you're on the edge of some important scientific discovery!"

"_Ta gueule!" _Fritz shouted. In his shock, Prussia did just that. "Do not test me, Gilbert. Out of all the people I thought I could trust, you were always the first who came to my mind. And now you will not even have the decency of supporting a little experiment of mine? What, is it—_merde!" _He leaped out of his chair in fright, almost knocking it over in his haste to get out of it. His scuttled backwards, his eyes fixed upon one of the armrests.

Gilbert was at his side in an instant. "What?" he asked, glancing back and forth between Fritz and the chair. "What is it.?"

"Can't you see it? There's a snake on the chair!" Fritz said, giving him an incredulous look. He rubbed his eyes irritably, only making them redder. "It's massive, you can't miss it. Oh—" he glanced at the chair and stopped in midsentence. "Well, it's not there anymore, it must have slithered off. Tell the servants to keep an eye out for it, will you?" He walked over to the coffee pot and poured his own cup, grumbling under his breath.

Still not one to give up, Prussia went up next to him and tried to reach for the pot as discreetly as he could. The flute smashing into his hand thwarted his efforts and caused him to yelp in a rather undignified manner. He jerked away and held his hand close to him; great, now both of them were injured. He looked up at Fritz and was met with such a furious glare that he was certain Fritz was about to rip his balls off right then and there. A few seconds passed before Fritz reached over and, without taking his eyes away from Gilbert, plucked a single cube of sugar from the nearby bowl and dropped it into his cup and stirred it in. "I expect better behavior from now on, Gilbert," he said just before he took another sip.

Knowing a pointless fight when he saw one, Gilbert let his shoulders slump as he nodded. "Yes, My King," he murmured.

"Oh, no need to be so formal," Fritz told him, switching moods on him once more. Good gods he was like an actor on stage. Fritz grabbed his hand and brought it closer to him, kissing the spot where he had hit it. "My apologies," he said with a small smile that looked genuine. That left Gilbert a dumbfounded mess, which Fritz didn't seem to mind as he reached for the servant's bell and rang it. Within second the door opened and one of the servants nervously poked their head in. "Bring me another pot of coffee," Fritz ordered, holding up the now empty pot.

The servant came in, his face confused and a bit wary as he made his way over. He glanced at Gilbert, but the kingdom was unable to do anything and just gave a small sigh. For a moment the servant hesitated, but Fritz sent him another glare that had him almost snatching the pot from his King's hands and scurried away in fright. "Is it so hard just to get a little cooperation around here?" Fritz murmured to no one as the door shut. "I swear, _monsieur chaise _is the only one who can do what he's told." All of a sudden he swatted the air next to him, as if there was a fly buzzing about.

Gilbert looked thoughtful at that. Chaise meant… "Chair?" he asked. "Did you just say Mister Chair?"

"Yes I did," Fritz answered, still swatting the air. "He's quite the conversationalist, actually. Knows a lot of fascinating things about physic—oh goddammit!" He stomped off to his seat, hitting his ear as he did so.

"What now?" Gilbert said as he followed him there.

Fritz threw himself into his seat and curled his legs up to his chest, sitting in the most undignified manner a king ever could. "That infernal buzzing noise!" Frederick said and glanced around. "It's like a fly or something, and it won't be quiet!"

There wasn't a single sound in the entire room except for Fritz voice. Was he hallucinating sounds now, too? "Fritz, I—"

"Oh well, it's no matter," Fritz interrupted him airily. "Anyways, have I ever told you about the new china sets I'm ordering for the palace? Straight from France, and inlaid with the finest gold you will ever see—"

Gilbert gave a huge sigh and tried not to bury his head into his hand. He usually didn't pray for anything, but now he was begging whatever deity existed above to stop torturing and please let his King pass out. Fritz was going to drive him crazy at this rate.

* * *

><p><strong>Legend<strong>

A crash of thunder jolted him awake, so loud that the palace walls nearly shook and he leaped up, fumbling blindly under his pillow for his knife before he realized that it was just a storm and he was in no danger. Prussia groaned and smacked his hand to his head, running his fingers through his hair tiredly. He plopped back onto his pillow, staring absently at the ceiling. Well, he was wide awake now, damned thunder interrupting his sleep. Then again with the noise everyone in the whole palace had to be awake as well. Just as the thought crossed his head he heard a loud knock at his door, barely audible over the thunder. He sat up a little. "What is it?" he said loudly.

The door creaked open and the soft golden light of a candle illuminated Frederick's face as he peered inside. "Gilbert?" he asked timidly, biting his lip.

He sat up fully. "Yes, what is it, Fritz?" he asked, already knowing why the little prince had come to him.

Another boom of thunder made Fritz jump. "C-Can I sleep in here?" he blurted out, almost dropping his candle. "Please? The thunder is really loud and—and—" he broke off in a whimper when a closer roll of thunder came and the walls really _did _shake this time.

Normally Prussia would have told a kid to just tough it out, but he had always had a soft spot for his dear little Crown Prince. Not to mention he knew that Fritz was only scared of thunder because it sounded an awful lot like the cannon his father would fire to wake him up, and he knew Fritz was terrified of _that. _He sighed and patted the spot next to him. "Fine, come here," he said.

Fritz almost flew across the room, slamming the door shut behind him and tossing his candle on the nightstand before jumping into Gilbert's bed. Now that he was closer, Gilbert could see that he really was shaking and his eyes were suspiciously bright. He felt as if he had been punched right in the heart just by looking at him. "Oh, child," he murmured as Fritz crawled closer and snuggled himself up to Gilbert's chest. Gilbert grabbed the covers and tucked them neatly around his prince before he looped an arm around the boy and pressed him closer, curling around him almost protectively. "Hey, calm down," he said, gently running his hand up and down Fritz's back. "The Awesome Me is here now, and nothing's gonna bother you while I'm here."

He felt Fritz nod against him. Already he was starting to relax a little. "Gilbert, how did my grandfather die?" he asked suddenly, his voice muffled from being so close to him.

Gilbert jumped a little. Where the hell did _that _come from? "Hey, no dark thoughts or anything of that nature, alright?" he said, poking Fritz on the cheek. "I said nothing's gonna get you, alright?"

Fritz nodded again. "I believe you," he said. "But I've always been curious, and no one would ever tell me. But they said it was at night. Was it like this night, Gilbert?"

He sighed, already sensing that Fritz was going to be a persistent bastard about this. "No, it was during the daytime when he died," he said, rubbing circles along the child's shoulder.

There was a pause. "But father once told me that something happened to him during the night, and he died because of it," Fritz protested. "Was he lying?"

Oh great, now he would have to explain it to him. He knew that the Queen would be upset if she ever found out, but he had never been one to hide a secret or story from a child just because they might not be able to handle it. You toughed it out, liked everyone was supposed to. "Well, there's a bigger story behind that. You scared of ghosts?" Fritz shook his head. "Good kid. Now, there's this whole legend behind your family, about this figure called the White Lady. She's the ghost of a lady, all dressed in white and carrying around a bunch of keys that can unlock any of the doors that are in a Hohenzollern household. No one really knows why, but it is said that whenever she appears a member of the Hohenzollern family will soon die."

"So she killed my grandfather?" Fritz asked quietly.

"No, no, she doesn't kill anyone. She's just an omen," Prussia assured him, going up to stroke his hair. "And it wasn't even her that appeared. Your grandfather had a sort of, erm…" Fritz glanced up as he fumbled for words. "Oh screw it, his last wife was utterly mad. A bit deranged, even. Fell into these fits at times. Anyways, during one of these fits she ran through one of the King's glass doors and, well, she was dress in only her nightgown and the King mistook her for the White Lady. He was so frightened that he fainted, and despite him waking up once or twice he ended up dying the very next day." That had been an odd time to say the least. Even after all of his centuries of living, Prussia had never seen something like that before.

Frederick was very quiet after that, but Gilbert knew he wasn't asleep. "So he died from fright then?" he asked, sounding utterly confused. "Is that even possible?"

"I don't know, but a lot of people will tell you that it is." He tightened his grip. "But that doesn't matter, and I don't want you getting any silly ideas about ghosts and death and whatnot, understand?"

Fritz laughed and wiggled a little, making himself comfortable. "Oh, I won't. You're here, after all, and you said you would always protect me."

"Damn straight," Gilbert murmured in agreement and felt himself already drifting off. Unawesome noises could only keep him awake for so long. "Now get some rest. It's just a silly thunderstorm, nothing that can hurt you."

The young prince muttered something indistinct and settled into his embrace, and Gilbert couldn't tell whether he was following his advice or not. He was already out cold.

* * *

><p><strong>Scars<strong>

Falling back into the covers, Prussia laughed quietly and stretched himself, still panting as he tried to calm his racing heart. He heard another, quieter laugh before Fritz's arm curled around him and pulled him closer, pressing his back against his King's chest. It was almost unbearably hot after all of the sessions they had but he wasn't going to tell Fritz to let go, especially not when his hand was going to wander over his chest like that and his teeth nibbled gently on his neck. "Stop that," he giggled and squirmed under the touch. "That freaking tickles, stoooop."

Frederick only laughed and nipped him on the ear, drawing a squeak out of him before he moved down to kiss his shoulder. The monarch drew back his hand to trace across Gilbert's back, his eyes roaming across the scars that covered it. His fair skin glistened in the candlelight, highlighting all of the marks that would usually be hidden; some of the older and shallower wounds were nothing more than pale silver marks that would only show up if the light hit them a certain way, and then there were deeper marks that had a pinkish hue. His hand paused over one scar—perhaps the worst one—that spanned across Gilbert's right shoulder. It was an ugly thing, all knotted and slightly pink, and Frederick's trained eye could tell that the wound had not healed up properly just from the way it was shaped. Even though it was mainly one big mess he could spot three very distinct lines that cut across the whole expanse of it. "Mind telling me about this one?" he asked softly, drawing his thumb across one of the lines. It was a little bumpy.

A shiver passed through Gilbert's body. "No," he said after a moment. "Not that one."

Frederick nodded, knowing better than to pry. He hand dipped lower to a star-shaped scar that was right under Gilbert's shoulder blade. "This one, then," he said, drawing circles around it.

Gilbert hummed thoughtfully to himself. "If I do remember correctly that was from an arrow. A barbed one, at that. Bastard was aiming for my lung, missed, and it was an absolute bitch to pull it out." He squirmed again, but Fritz couldn't tell if he was being tickled again or not.

"And this one?" he asked, his hand going to a long diagonal scar that ran quite a way across the pale back.

"Hey, don't get greedy now," Gilbert admonished him playfully. "I might stop the stories all together."

His response was a low chuckle and Frederick sat up on one elbow. "You do remember the terms of our agreement, right?" Fritz murmured into the albino's ear, his lips barely touching the skin.

That tone alone almost made Prussia shudder again. "Yes I do," he murmured back. "Whenever you get me to cry out your name, I have to tell you how I got one of my scars."

"Exactly," Frederick said, bending lower to trace the shell of his ear with his tongue. "You called my name _twice _as you came, love." Gilbert went very still at that, and Frederick immediately knew that he had won. "Now, tell me where that scar came from."

There was a long pause. "Which one is it?" Gilbert asked with a resigned sigh. "Trace it for me, I might remember if I feel it again."

The implications made his stomach do a little flip, but Fritz complied nonetheless. He gently drew his finger across the expanse of the scar, from where it started between Gilbert's neck and shoulder and curved down to just underneath his left armpit.

"Hmmm, oh that one," Gilbert said, suddenly sounding uneasy. He coughed a little. "That one was actually from an assassin."

It took a moment for that to sink in "What?" Frederick gasped in shock.

"Exactly what I said," Gilbert told him. "It was an assassin. He was a good one too, since I didn't hear him sneak up behind me, but I had this sense of danger and I suddenly felt this blade touch my neck. He was trying to reach around and slit my throat from behind, but I jumped and twisted away and he kind of…missed." He cleared his throat. "I didn't mean for it to cut across my back like that, I really didn't, but he was stubborn and dedicated to his job, and I can't fault him for that."

"Strange of you to say that about someone who was trying to kill you," Frederick said, letting his hand run up and down Gilbert's back. Many of the crisscrossing scars were whip marks, since he knew damn well what they looked like, but it was the other, stranger scars that caught his attention. There was that odd little nick right above Prussia's hipbone and what might have been a burn mark on his lower back, but how it got there was anyone's guess. He shivered as he felt the heat finally leaving his body and pulled Gilbert closer again, fitting perfectly against the contours of his body like two puzzle pieces snapping together to make a whole. Gilbert cuddled willingly into his embrace and rested his head back tiredly.

"What? You can admire your enemy," he said, a grin crossing his lips. "I mean, you do the same with Maria Theresa." The words were barely out of his mouth before Frederick pinched him with his nails and made him yelp.

"I do not," Frederick growled, his voice suddenly gruff and very unamused. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Despite the pain in his side, Gilbert still managed to chuckle. "If you say so," he replied airily. "Sounds like a bit of denial to me."

Frederick sat up a little. "I am not denying anything," he said, grabbing Prussia and flipping him onto his back. "Unless," he continued, straddling the nation's stomach and playfully drawing his hands down the scarred torso, "your words are those of a jealous lover's and you secretly think that I'm admiring a woman over you." His words were playful but his eyes were questioning as he bent down, inches away from Prussia's face.

Gilbert just smiled softly and brought one of his hands up, winding it in his King's hair and bringing him down to kiss him. That simple action was more than enough for Frederick, and he quickly relaxed, his hands starting to wander again. He drew little circles in the nation's chest and followed the scars that he could feel under his fingertips, bringing little shudders from Gilbert and a low moan. Fritz broke away to move down his body, trailing open-mouthed kisses all the way across his neck and chest, listening to the mewling noises Gilbert made from all of the sensations. Frederick smirked and licked across one of the scars, a small but deep one. "Why don't you tell me about this one?" he murmured against his skin, kissing it lightly.

The fingers in his hair ran across his scalp. "Now, _schatzi," _Gilbert said, "You haven't earned it yet."

The monarch looked up at him and grinned. "I soon will," he promised before going back down to continue his work.

* * *

><p><strong>Pieces<strong>

Oh it was broken, wasn't it? Truly broken.

Please, let it have just come apart…

Hands trembling, he tried to fit the pieces of the instrument back together. It took him three tries before he could manage it, but when the parts slid neatly into each other there was a harsh, sickening crack, one that was echoed by his own heart. He turned the flute over and saw the hundreds of miniscule fissures all along the body, and his stomach flipped. Oh gods, his father had _crushed _it. How in the world did he _do _that?

He started to shake again, his eyes prickling dangerously, and he blinked them furiously in an attempt to hold back his tears. They weren't going to be any use to him now and he didn't want a curious servant to poke their head in and see him crying as if he was a child again. Frederick gripped the flute in his hands and gasped as a sharp sting went through his palm. He flinched and accidently dropped the instrument, and the moment it hit the floor it broke apart into hundreds of little wood slivers right before his very eyes. Numbly he glanced at his hand and noticed tiny little splinter stuck under the skin, mocking him with his presence. A choked sob was torn out of his throat and hot tears spilled from his eyes, running down his cheeks and falling to the floor, among the remains of his precious instrument.

The prince tried to swallow the lump in his throat and absent mindedly dug the splinter out with his nails, flicking it away carelessly. Normally his sense of keeping things tidy would have stopped him from just throwing it away, but his room was an absolute mess and he couldn't make it any worse if he tried. Good gods did his father really have to tip all of the furniture over? He gazed around at the wreckage, his eyes dull and unseeing as they tried to take in everything. His furniture strewn about, his precious books scattered across the floor like bodies strewn along a battlefield. No doubt the pages that had been ripped out were somewhere and their spines had been snapped mercilessly. Belatedly he realized that a few of the books that had been thrown into the fireplace had fallen out and were now in danger of setting his room on fire.

Frederick was still in a slight state of shock, but he still managed to quickly stomp out the stray fires under his boots. Watching the black, ashy paper crumble to dust under his own shoes seemed to crush whatever last shreds of restraint he had and he finally started to cry, his entire body shaking with the force of them. He fell to his knees among the ruins of his books and yelped as pain shot through his bruised legs. The shock was wearing off a little and his could feel his head starting to spin from the returning pain, and each sob made the world tilt a little. Frederick reached for one of the books, something of Wolff's, and lifted it up. The few remaining pages fluttered out in a mess of flakes and dust and the back cover fell off with a muffled rip. It caused a cloud of ashes to puff up as it landed.

The rest of the book fell out of his limp hands and he hid his face in them, crying for all his soul's worth into them. His books, his flute, everything he had ever loved had been ripped apart around him. Why, oh _why _did his father have to do this to him?! Why couldn't he just be happy for once? He fumbled around for his handkerchief and tried to wipe the tears away, and it came away smudged with black. Oh dear did he smear ash across his face? He rubbed his face again but he knew deep down that he was just making it worse and that the marks wouldn't really come out unless he used soap and water.

There was a knock on his door, which made him jump and he scrambled to try and hide the fact that he had been crying, although he knew it would be pointless. He couldn't possibly hide the damage that had been done to his room, especially when he could hear the door opening. "Frederick?" he heard Wilhelmine, of all people, call out for him. "Frederick are y—oh!"

He couldn't escape now, not with his sister standing in the door like that. He hid his face in the crook of his arm so that she wouldn't see him. "Go away," he choked out.

Silence reigned after that and he swore he could feel Wilhelmine staring at him. Then he heard the door close and her soft, deliberate footsteps picking their way across the wreckage to reach him. He felt the fabric of her dress lightly swish across his arm as she knelt next to him. "Frederick," she repeated, laying her hand on his arm. "Brother, please…" she trailed off uncertainly. She quickly dug into one of her pockets. "Here," she said, pushing one of her own handkerchiefs into his grasp, "use this. You've gotten yours all filthy."

He turned his face away and wiped at his face again. The cloth of Wilhelmine's kerchief was much softer for some reason and it too was soon ruined by black smudges. Suddenly he was being pulled into a hug and before he could even push himself away Wilhelmine was holding him so tightly that he could smell perfume and powder. At first he squirmed a little, trying to escape his sister's grasp, but she refused to let go of him. Reluctantly, he hugged her back. She patted his head, trying to fit the role of the older sibling, just as she always had. "He didn't hit you too much, did he?" she asked quietly.

Yes, not even a question of whether he had been hit or not, because it always happened. He rubbed his nose a little, trying to regain his composure in his sister's arms. "Not really," he mumbled, "only when I tried to stop him."

"Your face is swelling up," she said, pulling back so that she could look at him. Her hand flew to her mouth and her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, dearest… a bruise is already forming." Her other hand gently brushed across his head—right above the temple—so softly that he barely felt it.

Frederick sighed to himself. "I'm sure there is," he said, his own hand feeling around. "I feel a little dizzy, and my side and legs hurt too."

Wilhelmine made a noise of sympathy and he saw her eyes filling with tears. She hugged him again, nuzzling into his shoulder. "I'm so sorry," she said, patting his hair. "Do you need a doctor?"

He chuckled, although there was no humor in it. "You can't do much for bruises, sister dear."

She flinched, but as she pulled away again he could see a hardness sin her eyes that he had rarely seen before. "Come on, I'm taking you to Katte," she said, standing up and trying to pull him along with her.

His heart nearly leaped out of his throat. "N-No! He can't see me like this!" he protested, yanking his hands out of Wilhelmine's.

But whenever his sister was set on something she wasn't one to give up. "He has seen you like this in the past and he will now," she replied, grabbing his hands again. "Get up, Frederick."

"Wilhelmi—" he tried to say and hissed his pain as his sister somehow managed to pull him to his feet and pain shot up his legs.

She quickly caught him as his knees buckled. "No more arguing," she said, her grip like iron. "Katte's, now."

When did his sister get so stubborn and pushy? Nevertheless he let her guide him out of the room, trying not to shake too much as they got into the hall.

* * *

><p><strong>Sunshine<strong>

He hated waking up now. He literally felt as if he was clawing his way to consciousness, kicking away the last remnants of sleep from his mind. The first thing he was aware of was his bed, of how soft and warm it was and how he really did not want to move because that would disrupt the wonderful softness he was in. But he was already awake so he figured that he might as well get up and see what was happening.

Light poured into his eyes the moment he opened them, bright and painful and he flinched away from it, burying his head into his pillow to escape from it. Damn he felt so weak; it was an effort just to move. Slowly Gilbert reached up and felt around his head, trying to find the wound that he remembered being there. A small knot was all that was left of it, his body's healing abilities slowly removing any trace of the wound until it would soon be nothing more than a memory. Although why it took three weeks for it to actually happen was a mystery to him.

Gilbert sighed and cracked open his eyes again, staring at the fabric of the sheets and pillow, the morning sunshine bathing them in a bright, buttery yellow glow. He tugged the blanket closer about himself and stared at the wall, mapping out the patterns in the wood grain with his eyes, trailing up to the ceiling and then back to his bed. He contemplated getting out of bed, but there was that odd leaden feeling in his bones that told him that he wouldn't get very far. It was still an effort for him just to sit up, which was damned irritating as far as he was concerned.

A knock on the door startled him out of his thoughts. He rolled over, idly wondering who was his visitor or well-wisher this time around. "Come in," he called, glad that his voice wasn't as scratchy as the last time.

The door opened to reveal Fritz and Gilbert was only partly surprised. His King had been his most common visitor so far and he seemed to come visit him every chance he could get. But this time around he was carrying a… tray? What in the world was he doing with that when he could just get a servant to do it? "Good morning," Frederick greeted him cheerfully, closing the door with his foot.

"Mornin'," Prussia mumbled, pushing himself into a sitting position. He eyed the tray dubiously. It looked like pastries and, judging from the smell, coffee.

"Are you up for some breakfast?" Frederick asked him, obviously noticing the look. He set the tray carefully down on the nightstand and pulled up the chair that he had spent the past few days sitting in whenever he came to see his nation. He had been carrying a satchel over his shoulder, which he carefully set down.

His stomach was already rumbling from the smell alone and he flashed his monarch a grin. "Of course," he said, "but didn't Zahner say something about no solid food until his orders?"

Frederick made a derisive noise, even though he was still beaming at his nation happily. "Bread is easy to digest, nothing like meat or vegetables, you'll be fine." He came and sat down on the edge of the bed, leaning over to give him a quick kiss on the forehead. "Besides, I got you a few gifts, and I know you'll be able to eat _them." _

Gilbert tilted his head to one side, smiling softly as warm fuzzies chest themselves around his stomach. "Now you've made me curious," he said, glancing at the plate. "I see nothing out of the ordinary there."

Fritz chuckled softly and reached for the satchel he had been carrying. "Well, I promised you a few days ago that I would get you some jam," he explained, opening the bag to show that it was filled with jars. "I didn't know what kind you liked, so I got all of the ones that I could think of." Frederick started to pull them out and set them on the tray.

That simple statement, spoken so soft and warmly, made his eyes water dangerously. He had said that only as a joke, as a cute little way of thanking his King for defending him, but had actually gone out and done it… He felt his lips curving into a smile and he quickly swallowed so that he could speak. "I hope you didn't get blackberry," he quipped, praying that his voice didn't sound too pathetic.

If Frederick heard it, he didn't say anything. He simply leaned over and kissed him again, this time on the lips. "I would never," he said, skimming a finger across his jaw before sitting up and reaching for the pot. "Coffee?" he asked, pouring some into two cups.

"Please," Gilbert replied, almost squirming in anticipation at the idea of hot coffee after gods know how long. "And for future reference, I like both strawberry and fig jam."

"Of course you would prefer the sweetest ones," Fritz said, stirring some sugar into his coffee before handing it to Gilbert. "Luckily I brought both."

Prussia hid his smile by sipping his coffee, humming with pleasure at the taste. "Thank you," he said, setting the cup and saucer back onto the tray.

"You're very welcome," Frederick replied, settling back into his usual chair with his own coffee in front of him. Gilbert watched as he opened one of the jars and, with a knife, spread some strawberry jam over one of the pastries. "These are freshly baked," he said, handing it over to him. "A kind baker down the street gave me half of an entire batch for a groschen, although I had to force the money on him after he realized that I was the King."

"Oh please, I bet you just waved that kingly influence around so he would give them free of charge," Gilbert teased before he ate almost half of his treat in one bite. It was indeed fresh, warm and so soft that it nearly melted in his mouth, the buttery taste of fresh baked dough mingling with the sweetness of strawberries. He felt his toes curling from the taste alone and oh, Fritz was a lifesaver. This was heaven right here.

Frederick almost sprayed crumbs everywhere with his laughter. "I did not, you liar!" he said, wiping some bits away from his jacket. "I would never take advantage of my people like that." He could barely hold back his chuckles as he bit into his food again, still smiling fondly at him.

Gilbert would have retorted at that, since he knew the Fritz was capable of tossing his power around whenever he pleased and he could name instances when it had happened, but he was too busy cramming his mouth full to talk. Normally he would have minded his manners but he had been eating nothing but broth for the past few days and the prospect of awesome tasting jam and fresh bread was working wonders on his self-control. Frederick just gave him a vaguely disapproving look but didn't say anything as he ate his own share, hoarding some of the pastries in front of him while the rest fell to Gilbert. He kept throwing smiles at his kingdom though, whenever he thought that Gilbert wasn't looking.

Coffee and jam. Everything was freaking perfect in the world now, with things starting to return to normal. Of course Fritz was still nearly smothering him with kindness but he wasn't about to complain about that anytime soon, not when it was bringing him a shitload of jam and coffee. When he finished he went back to his coffee, gulping it down as Fritz finished the last bits of his own meal and wiped his lips with a handkerchief. Just as he set his empty cup down Fritz suddenly stood up and all but jumped into the bed with him, mashing their lips together as he crawled on top of him. This time Gilbert was expecting it and responded eagerly, but Fritz pulled away far too soon. However rather than sitting up, as Gilbert was expecting, Frederick grabbed him by the chin and turned his head sideways, and then bent down and licked him just beneath the corner of his mouth. A shiver ran through him. "You have jam all over your face," Fritz whispered, his breath ghosting over his skin. "You're such a messy eater."

Despite the proximity, Gilbert still managed to dredge up a grin. "Want to help me clean it off?" he asked. One of his hands went up to trail along his King's leg, drawing circles in the fabric of his leggings.

"I think I got all of it," Fritz answered, kissing him again. He lingered for a few long seconds before pulling away again and lifting the covers to crawl underneath them. "Come here," he ordered, hugging him around the waist and pulling him closer. "I'm not on duty this morning and I've already given orders to the generals, so I'm free for the next few hours." His hand came up to brush the bangs away from his face.

Prussia smiled and snuggled into the hand, scooting closer until he was pressed right up against his chest. "Awesome," he murmured, curling into his arms. "And how are you going to spend your wonderful free time, if I may be so bold to ask?"

Frederick held him tightly, as if he might never let go. "I'm still deciding on that," he said, plopping his chin on top of Gilbert's head. "Mind staying like this while I think?" he asked with the slightest hint of teasing to his tone.

"Sure thing," Prussia replied, relaxing into his embrace. "Take your time."

* * *

><p><strong>Best Friends<strong>

"—and then we would jump off the carriage right before it was broken to pieces. If the jump was timed correctly then the Margrave and I would escape with nary a scratch. Of course the errant horses would have to be caught later, which was another adventure in of itself, but out of all the Margrave's stunts that one was easily the most fun." Seydlitz finished his sentence by draining the last of his beer, calling for another soon afterwards.

Zieten raised an eyebrow and sipped his own glass of brandy. "You are quite mad, my dear," he said plainly, interlocking his fingers together and resting his chin on them. "A brilliant cavalry officer and a more than capable leader, but utterly mad."

Seydlitz grinned at him, a sharp curve of his lips that would have been worn by any roguish youth of the day. "You disprove, Lieutenant General?" he asked, the question sounding almost like a dare.

"Only of the way you eagerly pursue death, or at the very least serious injury, as if it was a pretty little maiden that caught your eye," Zieten replied coolly, the beginnings of a similar smirk starting to form on his own face. "I can see how such an influence early on led you to become so reckless now."

"Reckless?" Seydlitz repeated, almost laughing at the words. "If I remember correctly you were much the same when you were younger. Tales tell of you being so engaged in the middle of a hunt that you didn't even notice a hollow in the ground until your horse fell into it and pitched you over its back."

A slight frown passed across Zieten's face at that. "The reason why I didn't see it was because the ground happened to be covered in snow," he explained. "And I have learned better, which you still need to do."

Seydlitz glanced at him as if asking if he was being serious, but he saw the laughter twinkling in his friend's eyes and his own countenance lifted. "Your advice has been duly noted, Lieutenant General, and it will be forgotten shortly."

The hussar general sighed in a long-suffering manner and raised his eyes to the heavens as if asking for some sort of guidance, and Seydlitz really did laugh. He only paused when the serving maid came by with a fresh mug of beer. He smiled and thanked her, giving a wink for good measure. A blush rose to her fair cheeks and she quickly scurried off, saying something about hearing other customers call her. Zieten watched her departure with a thinly veiled amusement. "I wouldn't, Seydlitz," he said, reaching for his glass again. "She's not your type."

Seydlitz looked at Zieten over the rim of his mug, his eyes suspicious. "My type? And you know my 'type,' Zieten?" he demanded.

Zieten smiled, his face saying that he knew a hell of a lot more than just that. "Of course I do. She's not a blond."

"Of for the love of God will you drop that already?" Seydlitz said, scowling as Zieten visibly held back his laughter.

"Not when there are still jokes to be made out of it. Squeeze the juice from the orange, as our King would say."

It was Seydlitz's turn to roll his eyes. "I knew it wasn't a good idea to have drinks with you," he said, only half serious. "It always makes you like this."

"I have barely had a glass," Zieten replied, holding it up for emphasis. "It's just a little camaraderie among friends, Seydlitz, surely you have had it?"

His smile was warm and disarming, and the corners of Seydlitz's lips twitched as he tried not to smile back. "Plenty of times," he said, "but not when you are so biting with your remarks."

"Biting," Zieten repeated in amusement. "Since when did you become so sensitive?"

Seydlitz all but _bristled. _"I did not," he said curtly.

The hussar's smile did not waver, and Seydlitz had the sudden feeling that he had only given his friend more fuel; thankfully Zieten could tell when enough was enough and dropped the matter for the time being. "If you say so. Anyways, how long do you plan to stay in this little corner of nowhere?" he asked. "I don't mind you being here but I'm sure you and your men have much more important places to be."

Seydlitz relaxed a little, his brows pinching in thought. "Well yes, we do since we have an assignment from the King. However I merely stopped here to give our horses a rest, knowing that you and your hussars were firmly planted in here so we need not worry about a sudden ambush. We will be leaving out by next morning." He grabbed his beer and gulped from it again as Zieten watched.

"There's a baker down the street who will sell you all the bread you need," Zieten said after a moment. "He is a Prussian sympathizer and will give you a good deal."

The mug hit the table with a loud thunk as Seydlitz set it back down. His eyes were curious. "We don't need it," he said. "We have enough rations to sustain us for a few more days."

"A few more days is not enough," Zieten replied, taking out his pipe in an absent minded way. "I'll tell you what, you can have some of the ones that we looted from the Austrians when we chased them out of the town. That is, if you don't try the baker first."

"Why—"

"They are too much for me and my men. Too many wagons will just slow us down. Right now we are on a scouting assignment, not an escort, and your larger troupe can handle it better than we." The words were dry and quick, punctuated by a quick wink before Zieten finished off his brandy with a swift swallow. "Think of it as a gift from a friend."

* * *

><p><strong>Impossible<strong>

Even from the distance they were at from Berlin, Gilbert could still hear the cheering and fireworks in the city as the people celebrated and eagerly awaited the return of their King. They were crammed everywhere in that bit of land, he could sense them like ants crawling across his heart. Their happiness, the pure joy of victory and an end to the bloody war raced in his veins and seemed to act as some sort of drug against the constant pain that wracked his body. It was more of a relief than he wanted to admit; even riddled with wound Prussia still kept his pride and didn't voice the smallest sound of complaint.

He felt the stare on him and barely managed to turn his head to meet the worried blue eyes of its owner. The rest of Frederick's face gave nothing away as to what he was thinking except for a small pinch between his brows. "Are you alright?" Frederick asked after a moment of silence, the soft tenor of his voice barely audible over the creaking of the carriage wheels and the horses' hooves clopping against the road.

Gilbert blinked and had to fight to open his eyes again. He felt so heavy and even though his soul seemed to be flying among the heavens his own body was leaden, his strength being sapped away by the scars, wounds, and burns that marred his body, mapping out the past seven years of it life with their bloody paths. The only thing he really craved was a place where he could lie down and rest, if only for a few minutes. He smiled reassuringly and even that was an effort. " 'm fine," he mumbled.

The only reason Frederick even understood him was because he knew how to read lips. The monarch raised an eyebrow. "I was not aware that slurring was an indication of good health," he replied dryly. His fingers tapped along the top of his cane. "You should sleep," he went on before Prussia had a chance to speak.

His eyelids had been slowly sliding shut of their own accord, but they snapped back open. A sardonic smile curved his lips, but did not reach his eyes. "Fall asleep inside the King's carriage?" he asked. "No, I think not, Your Majesty. It would be unthinkably rude, especially after you insisted that I ride here with you."

"I did that so you wouldn't kill yourself with your damned stubbornness, trying to mount your horse and ride it all the way to Berlin," Fritz said. "You would have passed out and fallen from the saddle not ten minutes afterwards and you would have held everyone up. In here though, away from judging eyes, you can have rest. I insist upon it."

Thinking was hard, yet he tried it anyway. However, the proper words for an argument slipped away like sand and he was left clutching at the remnants of scattered words that made little sense even to him. "Pushy today, aren't we?" he muttered, uncharacteristically giving up and resting his head on his arm, which was in turn resting against the window. The curtains tickled his face, smelling of dust and old battlefields.

A smile just barely passed over Frederick's face, but the nation was too tired to notice it. "Of course," he said, watching Gilbert's eyes droop shut again. "Rest, Gilbert. We are going through the back roads of the city to get to the palace. I want to avoid all of the pomp of the common masses." He gave the city in the distance a sour look, as if its happiness offended him.

"Mhmm," Gilbert mumbled without paying any attention to what Frederick was actually saying. The carriage was rocking him to sleep almost like a giant cradle. "Cranky old hermit…"

The last thing he heard was a chuckle, the first time he had heard Frederick laugh in months. A real smile stretched his lips but it vanished as he finally fell into a blessed sleep.

_It was dark and cold, the sort of cold that seeped into your bones until it hurt. The earth was wet beneath his cheek, and reeked of blood and gunpowder and death. The stench of it was everywhere, all but poisoning the air and leaving its sweet taste in the back of the throat with each breath. He coughed and turned his head to the side, trying to see where he was. The rest of the landscape was too dark, however, and he could only see vague shapes with might have been trees or buildings. A shiver crawled down his body and he had to bite back a gasp of pain as his wounds and bandages were stretched by the movement._

_Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead from the pain that started to flare up all along his body, each individual injury crying out in protest. What was wrong with him? They should not be hurting this much, he hadn't felt like this in months. He exhaled, keeping his breath steady. For a long time he laid there, waiting for the pain to recede and, eventually, it did as the cold numbed them. Then, he heard footsteps approaching. He turned again and saw Austria materializing out of the darkness, heading right towards him. Trailing after the nation like loyal hounds were Russia, Saxony, Sweden, and oh gods there was France, too…_

_He tried to sit up, but an explosion of pain rocked his senses and he fell back down with a strangled gasp. Someone laughed and when his vision cleared he saw Austria standing over him, the expression on his face cold and vacant. _

_Roderich stared at him pitilessly, eyes guarded and everything about him radiating a serene, perfect aura, from his spotless uniform to his neatly combed hair. It was if the war had never touched him. His sword was gripped loosely in his hand and with a flick of his wrist he brought the tip of it across Prussia's coat, barely grazing it. "You have something of him," the southern nation said, his voice soft and quiet, even polite. It was something that had always driven Prussia out of his mind, that damned politeness and the _calm _that Austria always wore as a protective mask in an attempt to fool people into thinking that nothing could affect him. He was just like an actor performing on a stage. Roderich slowly drew the sword tip down, tracing wide, uneven circles around his enemy's stomach and hip. "Something that has _always _been mine," he continued, his mask slipping just the slightest. There was now a hard anger in his eyes, an honest-to-gods rage trying to burn through a wall of violet ice. "And I'm taking it back," he finished and plunged his sword down, easily piercing his skin and burying the blade deep in his gut. _

_Gilbert screamed and tried to twist away, but an imperious boot came crashing down on his chest and held him in place. It felt like he had just been stabbed with a red-hot poker and suddenly all of his other wounds seemed to vanish beneath the agony of Roderich sawing and cutting him; he could feel every twitch of the blade inside of him and each little movement made the pain climb higher and higher until he was about to pass out. As if sensing that he was at his breaking point, the sword drew away, producing a wet sucking noise as it left him. For a moment he had some vain, pitiful hope that Roderich had stopped, maybe he had decided to be merciful. He should have known better, and the searing bolt of anguish that ripped through his abdomen a heartbeat later was his punishment. He didn't even know that he was screaming again. His eyes flew open and in a sudden moment of clarity he saw Austria bending over him, both of his hands clutched around something _inside _of him and pulling it at it like a dog trying to tear a strip of flesh from bone. _

_It came free with a wet squelch and the world vanished and with it something else vanished inside Gilbert's mind. It was as if a part of himself, his soul, had just disappeared. Some of his people, his Prussians, had winked out of existence and he could no longer feel them. A groan of pain and loss clawed its way out of his throat and he didn't see Austria stepping away from him, carrying Silesia under his arm and unmindful of the fresh blood that was soaking into his once pristine uniform._

_Gilbert moaned again, his throat too sore and raw from screaming to make anything louder. He tried to curl up on his side as much as the hole in him would allow and held one of his hands against it in an absurd attempt to staunch the flow of blood. The hot stickiness just poured between his fingers and drenched his hand, running down his skin in rivulets and soaking the ground even more. They were gone, all of them. His wonderful Silesians, whom he had been so proud to earn, were now all back with Austria. A lump formed in his throat at the thought of it, the goddamned aristocrat just parading in and taking Silesia, just like that, after Prussia had fought so hard to keep it. The hard tip of a boot prodded his shoulder and rolled him onto his back. He gasped and looked up to see that Russia had taken his comrade's place._

"_Hello, Prussiyah," Russia said, smiling down at him pleasantly. The words were barely out of his mouth before he was reaching down and grasping one of Gilbert's arms in his massive hands. "I'm rather sorry to say this, but I have been given East Prussia as a reward for my services. This might hurt a little." _

_And just like that he twisted, pushing his boot against Prussia's ribs and turning the arm, easily snapping it out of its joint and ripping apart cartilage and ligaments in a few short turns. Gilbert shrieked, screaming like something possessed and thrashing mindlessly from the pain, not even caring that his own movements were worsening the damage, he just had to get _away _but it was no use because Ivan was so much stronger than him an always had been—_

_His arm made an even louder noise as is was torn from his body, blood shooting free like a fountain, but there was no sudden relief of pain here. There were more swords and hands on him, tearing away Pomerania and Berlin, taking him apart like pieces of a puzzle—_

He jolted awake, his eyes snapping open and his body flying up like a drowning man finally breaking the surface of the water. He was panting and shivering, his face soaked in sweat, and for a long moment he had absolutely no idea where he was since the last fragments of his dream still blended with the darkness and cold around him. The hand grasping his shoulder brought him back to reality and let his thoughts ground themselves in a vaguely ordered manner.

"Are you alright?" Frederick was asking, his grip tight on Gilbert's shoulder. "You were making strange noises in your sleep and twitching."

It was an innocent question, but Gilbert felt his face flush regardless. He still hated to be caught in any state of weakness which was quite ridiculous by now since his monarch had seen him at his lowest many times throughout that long and bloody war, just as he had seen Fritz at his worst. Long habit and simple pride would always keep him from swallowing that, though. He reached up and grabbed Frederick's hand, giving it a quick squeeze as he pried it off of him. "I am now," he said and that was _not _a quiver in his voice. "It seems that even in my dreams my troubles never leave me."

Watery light flooded into the carriage as he said that, lighting up Fritz's face and the concern etched in it. It was wiped clean a moment later and Frederick glanced out to where the light was from. "We are here," he said, "and we seem to have people waiting."

Prussia nodded and breathed in deeply, knowing that he had to step out first, and then the King. Already a servant was opening the door and putting the step down, bowing to the both of them. The cool night air washed over his face and gave him the energy to stand up even though a moment later he had to grit his teeth as the half-healed wounds were stretched underneath all of the tight bandages. It made him stumble and almost made him miss the step and fall to the ground, but somehow he found his footing and then managed to dismount with little trouble. Then all at once his injuries started burning as if given a signal and he felt whatever color left in face drain.

Frederick followed him a second later and cast a concerned look his way as he approached. Gilbert nodded at him and released the breath he had been holding, trembling from the effort of trying to keep it calm. Of course it did not fool Fritz but with the people swarming around them he did not say a word. _Everything is going to be fine, _Gilbert told himself as he looked up at Sanssouci; he couldn't remember the last time he saw a place more welcoming. Of course everything was going to be fine, he had already done the impossible and survived a five-country coalition against him, virtually alone, and had come out on the better side. His little troubles now were nothing compared to those last seven years of hell that he and Frederick had gone through. With the servants holding lanterns and carrying their belongings, they made their way up the steps to the palace.

* * *

><p><strong>Jiggle<strong>

"We can take a break if you want," Frederick whispered to him as they neared the last steps.

Prussia shook his head, causing the sweat on his brow to trickle down his temple. "No, I'm fine," he whispered back, trying to hide the quiver in his voice that traveled into his limbs. He had never noticed the number of steps before but gods, each and every one of them were now burned into his mind as he forced his battered body to climb them. It felt like he had run a mile with every one of them.

"Your hands are shaking," Fritz said, frowning at them.

"_Ja, _they are," Gilbert said, all but running up the last steps. "But it will pass. We have things to do."

A quiet sigh came from behind him. "I know. But you need to be in a _somewhat _healthy state before you go gallivanting around the place." Frederick walked by, glancing over his shoulder to make sure his nation was keeping up.

He was, despite his limping, but what was a bit of a limp to finally being home? They were both home, both alive, both of them heroes... The golden statues and pale columns beckoned to him as if welcoming him home and entreating him to come inside and rest. One of the servants ran ahead and opened the doors for them, bowing as they passed. For a moment Gilbert paused and stared at the beauty that hit him, the marble columns and the paintings of Bacchus, the goddess Flora that laughed above them on the ceiling and the little gold leaf and vine decorations that flowed across the walls seamlessly. Long ago he had laughed and called everything too flowery and unawesome, but the scene before him was so untarnished that it seemed as if nothing at all had changed. Berlin had been so different, bells tolling out the loss of dead sons and fathers while the people cheered for the arrival of their king. Thank gods they had avoided the crowd and snuck into the palace through the back roads, but even that was a gloomy mess inhabited only by the royal family and some generals. The only lighthearted part of that visit was when Frederick had greeted the queen and told her she had gotten plump.

A tug on his sleeve snapped him out of his thoughts and he winced, realizing that everyone had stopped to wait on him. Fritz looked even more worried but waved them on, sending some of the servants ahead to their rooms. The king waited until Prussia started to limp again and let him catch up. "Gil—"

"I'm _fine,"_ Gilbert interrupted him, gritting his teeth as a bandage on his leg snagged against a scab.

Frederick all but bristled, his glare burning two holes into Gilbert's skull. "Do not lie to me, especially so poorly." The words might have been a growl if it was not Fritz.

Gilbert just turned away a little, his face coloring once more. He noticed with a start that they had already passed his room, but the door to Fritz's was wide open and a servant bowed to them as they approached. "A fire has already been prepared, Your Majesty," he said.

Fritz nodded and waved the rest of the servants away as he entered the room with Gilbert behind him. He waited until the doors had been shut before sighing explosively and grabbing Gilbert's coat. "Lay down," he ordered in a tight voice. "For heaven's sake you look like you're about to faint."

The persistent tugging guided Gilbert over to the couch and for once he did not object. He sank gratefully into it, hissing as the pressure made his injuries throb before they faded away into the dull ache that had been plaguing him for the past few years. It felt so awesome to finally take the weight off his legs and the fire nearby let him relax his muscles, it felt like they had been tense ever since the war started. He felt the couch dip and a cool hand was on his forehead. He opened his eyes, not even realizing that he had shut them, and looked up at Frederick. " 'm not sick," he mumbled.

"I'm just checking," Frederick said, brushing the hair away from his face. "You're awfully flushed." He frowned deeper and stroked Gilbert's face a little, right over the flamed cheeks that seemed to be the only color left in his nation.

Gilbert remembered how he had once laid on this very same couch, years and years ago, in the throes of a crippling springtime headache. Frederick had been sitting exactly where he was now and stroking his face the exact same way. The memory made his lips stretch oddly while a sharp pain wracked his heart; they were happier times, forever lost to them.

"What?" Fritz asked him, tracing the smile on Prussia's lips that he had not seen in so long. An answering smile dared to make itself seen, but it was only in his eyes.

He did not want to tell his king the truth, for it would just make him unhappy. Luckily he had a backup. "Y'know it wasn't nice to call the queen fat," he said, smiling wider at the memory of her face. Lord, Frederick was so bad at talking to people sometimes but it never failed to make him laugh.

A derisive snort answered him and he looked in just enough time to see Fritz roll his eyes. "Gilbert, she _jiggled _when she walked," was all he said.

That was all he _needed _to say. The laughter burst out of Gilbert before he even knew it was coming, startling them both and causing Gilbert to laugh as his stomach burned and told him that no, laughing was painful and stop it right now. He did not care that gasps of pain were intermingling with laughter, all setting off a fit of trembling that shook his whole body from the pain; that was one of the funniest damn things he had ever heard Fritz say in his life and it had been so long since he had laughed or smiled or…

There were fingers on his lips and a voice shushing him, tinged with its own laughter. "Hush, hush, stop laughing! Gilbert you will make yourself bleed again!" Frederick even pulled up his shirt a little as if to check for it.

Gilbert slapped his hands away gently and had to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing again. "I'm just fine, stop it," he said and flinched from the pain in his abdomen. "Just fine. The only thing wrong with me is that I'm exhausted and in pain."

"Oh yes, I wonder where that came from," Frederick muttered and almost made him start laughing again. "Go to sleep. I shall be here when you wake up."

"Mhmm," Prussia said, closing his eyes and turning his face into the couch as Fritz stroked his hair, the soft touch carrying his thoughts away into a soft, dark place where he drifted, peaceful and dreamless.

**((****Coffee:** Oh if only you guys knew how long I wanted to write this story XD The thing is this pretty much happened, for the most part. Fritz wanted to see if a person could survive without sleep, so he drank a shitload of coffee to test it out. Of course no one will actually say how long he managed it or how much coffee he drank total, but "40 cups in once day" constantly appears.****

****Some people can stay awake for long periods of time without any side effects, but only a few. Paranoia, hallucinations, memory loss, inability to concentrate, unable to focus eyes, and slurred speech are just a few of the symptoms that can come from extended lack of sleep (which is generally anything past two full days/48 hours) I decided to combine that with a massive caffeine high and you get the Fritz that shows up in this story. All the jitteryness of caffeine combined with the "HAPPY" smile and the pointless rambling, both of which happen to me if I drink a lot of caffeine. (And by a lot I mean like, a whole pot since I drink coffee so much that it takes quite a lot for it to actually affect how I do things. Usually it just keeps me awake.)****

****note: The first dude Fritz is talking about when Gilbert walks in is Étienne Bonnot de Condillac. As you can tell Fritz didn't care for geometry at all.****

******Legend:** Little Fritz, I love you so much. Please visit my stories more because you are too cute and precious to be ignored ^^ Anyways the White Lady, I wish I could have put more info in on her, such as the stories behind why she haunts the Hohenzollerns and some of women people believed she was, but they wouldn't fit into the story. Gah, really wish I could. however if you want you can Google it, which is how I got my information.****

****Yes that little incident really did happen with Frederick I. History is so weird sometimes, and I can't help but feel a little sorry for poor Fritz's grandfather. But hey if that happened to me I might have a little heart attack as well.****

******Scars:** Yay for headcanon ideas that have been in my head forever and have finally been written down. My headcanon Gilbo has a loooot of scars on him. Like, they're fuggin' everywhere. And Fritz, being the curious little cookie that he is, wants to know all about them and constantly pesters Gilbert about them whenever he sees them. They actually formed their little agreement during one of their, erm, "arguments" inside my head so I just decided to write that down as well XD  
>And yes the shoulder scar links to another headcanon of mine. I love it so much when they all interconnect like that.<strong>**

******Pieces:** Dammit shortness I hate shortness. The funny thing is Katte was supposed to be the one who found Fritz, but Wilhelmine suddenly appeared out of _nowhere_ and demanded to be written once more. And I love writing my headcanon Wilhelmine, screw the fact that she's different from real life Wilhelmine. But I needed to write something with the siblings being all cute and looking out for each other and bigsis!Wilhelmine, which you don't see a whole lot of ^^  
>Yes and this was actually based off of a movie, go figure XD<strong>**

******Sunshine:** I need more sickeningly sweet Fritz in my life XD Only problem is I could write him being any sweet because I actually thought he was getting to be OOC. (It's still an AU that's my only excuse) But that thing in Disgusting where Fritz promises to get him some jam? Well he fuckin' meant it and jam he will deliver.  
>Jamfluff. Eeeek, so cute. This has to be the sappiest, sweetest, most teeth-rotting, diabetes-inducing headcanon I have. Honestly, I see them giving each other jam JUST TO BE SISSY SAPS TO EACH OTHER with like glittery rainbows of love and shit.<strong>**

**Best Friends: Really the only thing I know about Zieten and Seydlitz's relationship is that Seydlitz pretty much idolized Zieten and thought that he was a great general and even hero worshiped him a tiny bit. And the only time they are mentioned as being in the same company is at the beginning of the 7YW when Seydlitz was placed under Zieten's command but my headcanon just runs off with them and ships them in the greatest (b)romance ever. I mean not only are they a lot alike but the way I write them makes them pretty good foils to each other, and from the way they're depicted in some of the older German movies about Fritz seems to think this as well.**

**Impossible: I think of the most interesting quotes from Frederick, and the one that inspired me to write Prussia like this, is how he describes his country after the 7YW. He said its "a body riddled with wounds, weakened by the loss of blood, and ready to succumb under the weight of its sufferings…" Like holy hell how are you not supposed to write something to that, playing off of that exact description? **

**Jiggle: Ahaha I messed up so so badly on this. The original version actually had Fritz and Gil meeting the queen and the whole conversation between them but then reading up on it I realized I was an idiot because I wrote them being in Sanssouci when it really happened in Berlin » (of course I should have known that already because Fritz never let the queen or any women come to Sanssouci but whatever) Either way though I think that was pretty funny of Frederick even if it reinforces how much of a colossal jerk he was to people.))**


	21. Hell pt 1

**This is, without a doubt, the longest prompt I have ever done. This is not even the full thing and it's longer than most of the chapters in this entire story. I wanted to post the entire thing in one go (and guess what the whole thing IS in fact longer than any of the chapters already written and it is all one prompt) but it's been dragging on for so long that I honestly couldn't help myself. I started writing this about four days before Christmas, thinking I had enough time to finish the whole thing. Then when Christmas came and went I wanted to post it on New Year's but guess what I still wasn't done. So I finally have gotten tired of putting this off and have instead just cut the prompt into different parts instead for your enjoyment and torture, I hope you lovelies will enjoy this brain child and idea that I have wanted to write for the _longest _time.**

**Don't let me fool you into thinking this story goes well. It won't.**

**Oh and you NEED a map for this story, I guarantee you. Once you figure out which battle this is Google a map for it right away because this stuff will get confusing quickly I promise you.**

* * *

><p><strong>Hell<strong>

It was going to be a very hot day. The sun was hardly even rising and already the army was dragging their feet, beaten down by the merciless heat that drove into their backs without a single minute of respite. The night before had been still and had offered little cold, swarms of mosquitoes had buzzed all night, greedily feasting on the heated blood offered to them. Marching was already difficult enough on the narrow, sandy roads, but the waves of heat rolling in the air brought the exhausted men to a crawl. Their heavy cannons could hardly move through the terrain and the sharp turns in the roads would often bring them to a complete stop altogether, forcing the teams pulling them to be unhitched and the limbers to be turned by force, slowing their progress even further.

Well if the Russians had no idea they were coming, they certainly did now. Gilbert patted Wink's neck soothingly as the Friesian panted under him, trying his hardest not to pant with her. The uniform that he so prided himself on had betrayed him, collecting the sun's rays and trapping them inside the layers of his clothes until he felt like a living furnace. Already he was sweating and not even that offered him relief, for nature was not feeling generous to anyone today. Not a single breath of wind stirred the leaves and the sky was spotless, no clouds would drift overhead to shield them from the heat. The nation looked over to Kunersdorf—whatever he could see through the trees anyway—knowing the small village was packed with Russian and Austrian soldiers and sighed to himself, offering up a small prayer to whatever higher powers listening today. _Please don't let this be another Zorndorf, _he begged, a shiver that he wished came from a cold wind wracking his body for a moment. Already they had the same heat and the Russians as their enemy like before, but this time he hoped that it would not be the bloodbath that had occurred last year. For all of his love of war and fighting, even Prussia had more than his fill of slaughter that day.

He shook his head to gather his thoughts and dabbed his sweaty forehead with his sleeve, reaching for his canteen as he did so. The water inside had turned lukewarm long ago but it still felt amazing going down his parched throat; he resisted the urge to gulp the rest of it down, knowing that it would only provide a brief respite and waste the precious liquid doing so. He swished his canteen a little. There was enough left inside for two good swallows and that would have to last him the rest of the day, and the battle had not even started yet. Gilbert sighed again and noticed a similar motion out of the corner of his eye. He turned to see Frederick drinking from his own flask, but from the angle he was holding it at and the slight frown the pinched at his brow he must have been finishing off the very last dregs of it. Instantly he was nudging Wink closer and unbuckling his canteen from his hip before any of the king's aids could reach for their own. "Here," he said softly, pressing it into Fritz's hands. "There's a bit still left in mine."

Inquisitive eyes turned to him, glancing at his bare hip for a brief moment. "And what about you?" Frederick replied, concern and gratitude clearly battling themselves in his expression.

Gilbert gave him a reassuring smile. "I'm just fine, I've already had my fill," he said as casually as he could, as if the contents inside were no more useful than the dirt beneath their horses' hooves. "You're far more important anyway, so drink up."

Frederick looked as if he wanted to argue, but he uncharacteristically relented, showing how exhausted he had already become. Gilbert felt no small amount of satisfaction as he watched his king drink, knowing it was small victories were the ones that counted with him. As usual, however, Fate was cruel with her humor and just at that moment a hussar appeared, riding up to them and saying he had an important message for the king.

"Your Majesty," he said through his panting, "the Russian lines have turned around to face us while we were marching. What used to be the rear is now the front line, and they have placed their wings on the Judenberg and Muhlberg."

It was like a thunderbolt from the clear blue sky. Gilbert's heart leaped in shock while Frederick choked and sputtered profusely, causing his nation to give him a solid slap on the back. "_Was?" _he demanded as soon as his throat was clear, the harsh German slipping out of his mouth so unexpectedly that everyone around him stared in astonishment. "That can't be right," he said to no one in particular, going back into French, "those lines were facing north just hours ago!"

"I swear on my life that I have seen it, Your Majesty," the hussar replied fervently. "You can see them clearly from the Kleiner-Spitzberg."

"Damn!" Frederick snarled, shaking his head and glancing at what little of the village they could see as if he could discern his enemies' positions from his current location.

Prussia swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry again. His king's plan had the army marching all the way around the Russian and Austrian army to come at them from their rear, using the forest as their cover, while General Fink harassed them from the north with a much smaller body of soldiers to make it look like the Prussians were going to attack them head on. It was a mirror of what they had done during Leuthen and had worked spectacularly, but such a bold move only worked once and General Saltikov was much cleverer than Prince Charles. "They were expecting us," he murmured to Fritz. "That's why they built all those barricades and earthworks facing north, Saltikov knew we would try to swing around to his rear so he fooled us into thinking that his front lines were north."

Frederick merely nodded, already having reached that conclusion himself. "We can't attack them like that now," he said. "There has to be a change in plans." He waved at an officer—Major Linden—and a senior forester that they had picked up from the local area to come closer to him. The former had occasionally hunted in the Kunersdorf area before the war and had been questioned by the King already for any details about the lay of the land, but nothing he could give was very helpful. The latter was equally useless, so overwhelmed to find himself talking to the King that he had been reduced to a pale, babbling mess. "Take us to where we can get a view," Frederick ordered.

Urged on by the King's tone, their guides started forward along with the hussar who turned and led them back the way he came. Travelling with the vanguard meant there were less people to slow them down as they rode up the heights of one of the numerous hills surrounding the area, pushing their mounts hard to keep up with the King's speed. As they came to the crest of the hill Gilbert felt his stomach flip again as he finally surveyed the land with an unobstructed view. Kunersdorf lay beneath them, surrounded by its hills that the area was so well-known for. Facing them was the Grosse-Spitzberg, rising out of the ground directly in front of the village and bristling with the Russian battery and their center line, also facing them. The lines had indeed turned around. Gilbert shook his head and looked off to the left, where the ground leveled out for a few hundred feet before abruptly rising again to form a much steeper hill called the Judenberg, which also was swarmed with the left wing of the Russian army and what also looked like the Austrian cavalry as well. The nation almost groaned out loud when he noticed that a large string of ponds also dotted the area, both in Kunersdorf and stretching from their enemy's lines at right angles all the way to the forest. They had not noticed them yesterday when they surveyed the area, and now Frederick's plan _definitely _could not work since the amount of ground they had to work with had just shrunk. Cavalry would be impossible; the ground among those ponds was probably wet and swampy and would be hard to cross on foot, let alone horseback. That only left—

The Russian right. He whipped his head around to observe it, stationed on another hill that was equally as tall as the Judenberg, known as the Muhlberg. He could see Fritz doing the same, his spyglass never missing a single detail as it swept over the lines and hills, taking in everything and feeding the King's hungry mind. For a long minute Frederick was silent, although Gilbert could practically feel the waves of displeasure rolling off of him, as he merely turned in his saddle to sweep his spyglass over every inch of the land.

Finally he lowered it, snapping it shut. "Well then," Frederick said, sardonic and acidic, "we seem to have a bit of a problem on our hands." He turned to his aides, his eyes sharp. "Ride to the Generals and tell them to stop the march, we need to change our position. Go to the left first and have them reposition east of those ponds, then—"

Gilbert listened to the flurry of orders, trying to keep his smile down. It was one of the many things he loved about his ruler, the speed which he reacted to things. Frederick thought fast, decided fast, wrote and spoke fast, and traveled fast. And in times of war and battle that quality shone through like no other. Already that magnificently quick mind of his had seen the problem and analyzed it and was changing according to it, discarding his old plan in an instant and building up a new one. The left wing would anchor east of the ponds and wait there with the cavalry, he heard Frederick order, then the center columns was ordered to deploy in the woods southeast of Kunersdorf and also wait. The right wing was to be turned around and rejoin General Fink for his attack, which would now become a true assault rather than the distraction it was originally supposed to provide. Colonel Moller's heavy artillery was ordered to take positions on the Walkberg, Kleiner-Spitzberg, and Klosterberg hills and aim for the Muhlberg.

The last detail got the nation's full attention. As the aides were sent flying away with Frederick's order of "The quicker you get there the better for us!" ringing through the air, he rode up to Fritz's side. "Storming the Muhlberg?" he asked, knowing it had to have been the only reason they were aiming so much cannon to the right.

"Of course," Frederick said with a wave to the enemy lines. "The center is far too fortified to attack, we'll be shot to pieces before we even get in range, and the left has those blasted ponds in front of them along with their cavalry. The weak point has to be the right and that is where we shall fight them." He turned his back to the village and urged his horse on, sending it into a canter with the rest of his guard following him.

The forest was filled with confusion as they rode through it, the new orders disrupting the perfect discipline of the Prussian army as they were forced to turn and regroup themselves under their shouting officers. The men had already been fatigued and hot and fed up with the roads, and now this?! Gilbert felt their grumbling like ants crawling across his skin and Fritz, far from stupid, rode down the lines as he passed, shouting out encouragements to the soldiers and even bantering with those that dared to shout a reply back to him. Along the way he stopped only briefly to talk with the commanding officers of the regiments, detailing his new orders as quickly as possible and gathering his scattered aides as they rushed back to him. However when they came across cannons stuck in the sand and their teams forcefully shoving them free with their bodies, the pace having come to a near stop as they fought with the land to dislodge their guns, it was different. The scowl was evident in Frederick's voice as he berated some of the officers, saying that they needed these guns in position as soon as possible and that the battle depended on it! The threat of royal wrath had the men pushing themselves even harder, their shouting and grunts of labor and occasional cheer as some uncooperative wheels finally moved filling the woods after the king had passed by.

Frederick led them back north, along the roads they had crossed only hours ago and to the Walkberg, with some of their artillery struggling to catch up to him. He ordered for engineers to be sent to the hills where their cannons would rest and to begin building their batteries. It was on the Walkberg that he would rest and observe, watching everything going on with a critical eye that burned with impatience as he rode back and forth along the hill until he actually dismounted and scribbled an order for one of the aides to ride off with. However instead of mounting again he stared at Kunersdorf, watching the columns of smoke rise from the blackened buildings behind the walls. The Russians had set the village on fire last night while they marched, were they doing it again?

Prussia didn't like how he towered over his king while he was still on his own mount and slid off as well, approaching Frederick silently. "Is something troubling you?" he asked, noticing how Fritz was idly turning the green diamond ring on his finger again.

For a moment Frederick was silent and he merely shook his head in response, but the sigh that rose from his chest told a different story altogether. "Call it a hunch, if you will," he said softly. "A bad feeling. I just ordered Scipio to be saddled and brought here."

"I would be more concerned if you continued to ride Cerberus for the whole battle," Gilbert replied, glancing at the chestnut charger as he spoke. The horse raised his ears at him, hearing his name. Gilbert knew how fond his king was of his favorite horses and would often ride his replacements into battle rather than face the possibility of one of his mains being shot and killed under him. The fact that he had saddled Cerberus at all earlier had raised eyebrows. "What kind of 'bad feeling' are you talking about, anyway?" he asked, frowning at the choice of words Frederick had used.

An elegant shrug was his response. "I have no idea," Frederick said, reaching into his inner coat pocket and withdrawing a little gold box from it. There was a second where Gilbert's heart nearly froze in fear, thinking it was the box of pills, but he relaxed when he recognized one of the snuffboxes from the extravagant jewels that decorated it. "I simply had a sudden feeling of trepidation as I looked at the field from here, and I figured that I might as well listen to it and ride Scipio just in case I get shot at." His fingers tapped the lid of the snuffbox a little, knocking all of the powder down before he opened it. "After all whenever I usually feel fine about a situation everything goes horribly, Hochkirch taught me that lesson, so I would be foolish to ignore my instincts warning me here." He took his snuff as he spoke, brushing away the little bit that fell onto his coat although it had been so stained by now that the gesture was pointless. "And what about you? Do you feel the same?"

Gilbert frowned harder, eyes roaming over the hills again. After Frederick's words the batteries positioned on them looked far more menacing, looming over the Prussians with all the calm deadliness of a great eagle ready to swoop down and strike. If it had only been Austrians they were against he would not have felt nearly as uneasy as he did now, Specs was a big prissy aristocrat and Gilbert could kick his face in any day, but Russia was an entirely different being. Ivan was cold, ruthless, and utterly savage as was shown by how his Cossacks burned down almost all of the nearby mills and inns and pillaged the entire countryside. He was a fighter, just like Gilbert, and Gilbert understood him for it far better than he understood Austria. "Well I didn't until you mentioned it," he said so softly that only Frederick could hear him. He would never admit such nervousness to anyone but Fritz, pride and the knowledge that if he showed anything but the utmost confidence the men would grow uneasy keeping his mouth shut. "I might just send for one of my other horses as well."

The question was clear in Frederick's expression. "Isn't Wink your best mount? Would it not be better to ride her here?" He shook his head a little, a reassuring smile coming across his face as easily as a mask. "Do not let the doubts of a cynic like me bring you down, it is my own personal feelings." He tucked his snuffbox back into his coat, right over his breast, patting it back into place with a chuckle.

"An even greater reason not to ride her. She is my best horse and I would rather not see her get shot, and since we're against the Russians today that chance is much higher. You remember what happened at Zorndorf." Gilbert beckoned to one of his aides and ordered him to saddle one of his other mounts while Fritz watched him, silent and grave.

"So you will fight with Russia again?" Frederick asked, far too casually. The edge in his voice was subtle, but still present. Almost unconsciously his hand drifted to his sword, memories of the bloody battle and the nations' mutilated bodies after they nearly hacked each other to pieces flashing in his mind's eye.

"It's unavoidable," Gilbert said with a shrug to match Frederick's earlier one. "I told you earlier that Ivan seeks people out to fight them. We nations don't have to fight each other face to face in battle but Russia hunts you down and deliberately engages in it, he's like a wolf. And I'll be damned if I run or shrink from his challenge." His jaw clenched and he glared at the ridge of hills as if he could discern Ivan's figure from the men among them. He could sense the other nation, along with Austria, and he knew they could sense him as well but none of them would be able to pinpoint their exact locations.

Fritz sighed at his words. "I just ask that you try to be more careful this time. I still can hardly believe that I found you in such a state after the battle and wouldn't believe it at all if I had not seen you with my own eyes." He stood straighter after his words, seeing his aide coming back and leading a white horse after him, the bright red and silver trimmed saddle of the king giving it a splash of color. Taking the reins from the aide and letting the man lead Cerberus away, he vaulted into the saddle, his spyglass already coming back out. "Where are Moller's cannons now?" he asked as he examined the Russians again.

"They'll be coming soon," Gilbert assured him, sensing their location and also hearing the first notes of creaking wheels drifting through the trees. "The first line should be here by about eight, no later."

Frederick nodded and rode among the builders that had been sent, inspecting their work with a critical eye and ushering them on. Soon after Gilbert was able to keep up with him trading in Wink for another one of his Friesians named Donner and kept at Fritz's side, listening to his encouragement that was both hurrying and praising at the same time. "Silently, though!" Frederick often added to his orders. "The Russians have not noticed us yet, let's keep it that way!"

Of course the enemy had to have noticed that something was amiss, there was no way the Prussians were hidden while standing on the hill, but Saltikov did not yet know of Frederick's changed plan so he was still expecting the Prussians to try and attack him. Their appearance on the Walkberg was suspicious but no cause for alarm yet. An hour passed before the entirety of the first line of artillery was in place and the second line was still far behind them, displeasing the monarch more as the time was stretched out even more and he could do nothing about it.

The sun continued its ascent and the day was only going to get hotter, the rays peeking over the tops of the trees that were now useless for protection against them. Everyone was suffering from the heat that now seared them like the eye of an angry god, some of the engineers nearly collapsing from the strain of working under the blaze as they rushed to finish their building. This time around Gilbert was really panting and tilting his hat to keep most of the sun's rays from his delicate face, the combined heat from his clothes and his black horse covering him until he felt like he was inside an oven. Frederick was affected as well even though he did he best not to show it, only dabbing his face with a handkerchief and drinking from time to time. A kind peasant from the village had come up to them earlier and offered the king a water jug which they had filled with pure, cold water from the village fountain and had been rewarded a thaler for it. However, Fritz kept him around as he refilled his flask, interrogating the man about the movements of the Russians and the Austrians and pressing him for details about the lands. The peasant was not able to reply with much and could only detail the destruction the Russians had caused, setting Kunersdorf on fire and almost all the inns in the area for miles to come.

"No better than animals, the lot of them," Frederick muttered as the peasant made his way back to wherever he came from, using the forest as cover. "They would probably turn on each other the moment their command breaks down." His gloves creaked as he curled his hands into fists, gripping the reins so tightly that Gilbert was afraid he was about to wheel off and go galloping somewhere.

"Yeah," the nation said, wincing a little, "out of all the other armies they are the most destructive. I know where they are all the time because they destroy everything they come across."

A piercing stare went right through him and Gilbert almost squirmed in his saddle, knowing immediately that he had let something slip. "Did you feel the village burning last night?" Frederick asked. "Is that why you were not able to sleep? You were favoring your side the entire time we were marching."

Goddammit why did Fritz have to notice _everything? _Annoyance made him scowl and he forced himself to not let it show too much. "Yes, I did. It still hurts quite a lot, there is a blister there now and it's very irritating in this heat." Understatement of the year right there. The heat of the day was making the burn almost intolerable and he had to fight down a yelp every time he turned his body around and made his clothes scratch against his skin.

Severity gave way to worry and Fritz opened his mouth to say something, but before he could get the words out a cry of warning came from some of the soldiers and they both looked to see a small band of Cossacks riding along the terrain between them and the Russians. After being ignored for so long it finally looked as if the Russians were taking an interest in their activity. "Pay them no mind," Frederick said to the soldiers. "They can't know who we are or what exactly we're doing here, or else they would have sent a lot more men than a simple reconnaissance team."

It was much easier said than done, though. Again Gilbert felt the dark mutterings of the men around them and he was inclined to agree with them this time. Everyone knew about the infamous atrocities committed by the Cossacks in particular and here was a group of them within range and on the open ground! The Prussians could have easily shot them all with little fuss and Gilbert sorely wanted to do so, knowing the only reason that they were not was because Frederick did not want to attract any more attention to their position than was necessary. But the Cossacks kept coming nearer to them, some of their laughter drifted up to the gunners as they almost seemed to make it a game, venturing closer and closer to see how far they could test the Prussians' patience. The closer they got the quicker they would realize that batteries were being dug and report back to their general, although they were not that close yet.

Hearing their raucous laughter was the final straw for one of the gunners, it seemed, and one of the cannons blasted out a round of grape shot at the offending Russians, catching them completely by surprise. The noise was so unexpected after such a long period of enforced silence that Gilbert nearly jumped out of his seat; he was glad that he was not the only one to do so. Frederick whirled around instantly, eyes blazing, and another cannon down the line fired, no doubt encouraged by their comrades. The horses of the Cossacks were squealing and the party quickly turned and fled, two more blasts of grape shot following them as they retreated back to the safety of Kunersdorf.

The gunners' victory was short lived, their cheering being cut to a halt as Frederick came galloping up, eyes afire and glaring at the perpetrators. "Silence, will you!" he shouted, his voice cracking like a whip. His tone had some of the soldiers shrinking back in fear and deliberately avoiding his eye as they went back to their work, trying very hard to pretend that it was what they had been doing the whole time.

Gilbert hid his chuckle behind his hand, knowing that it would only further Frederick's anger if he heard it. He didn't care if it had pissed Frederick off, that had been hilarious and awesome and he imagined Ivan's face when he would see his Cossacks coming back from their mission bloodied and injured. It was almost enough to make him forget his pain, almost. Just then the second line of artillery finally emerged from the woods, sparing the soldiers from more of the king's temper as he rode to them instead, orders flying again. Reports that the other guns were in position and that Fink was ready and awaiting orders trickled in, all of them eager for Frederick's signal. The battalions that would capture the Muhlberg milled at the edge of the forest, hiding gratefully under the shade of the trees as the sun came closer and closer to being directly overhead, driving away almost all hope of relief.

It had taken forever for all of the guns to finally be in their proper places, the heat and terrible roads having eaten up so much of their precious time. Gilbert checked his watch after glancing at the batteries one last time, finally aligned and ready to rain down fire and iron on the Russians' heads. It was eleven-thirty, nearly noon. Half of their daylight had already been lost but there was nothing they could do about that now, not a single thing. He sighed and lifted his hand to his hat, letting Gilbird flutter down and perch on his fingers, the bird having been nested up there the whole day. "It's time for you to go, Gilbird," he told the chick, who peeped at him questioningly. "Come find me after the battle is over, you know what to do." With another cheep Gilbird took off, a tiny ball of fluff that soared higher and higher until he was not even a speck against the sky anymore, far out of sight and the danger that was about to come. Prussia smiled and looked to Fritz, who gave a single nod and raised his hand, signaling to the artillery.

The battle began with a magnificent cacophony of thunder as the cannons let loose, all of them aiming for the Muhlberg. He heard the whistle of artillery shells and the confusion that soon spread across the hill, but then the Russian cannons answered with their own volley right away, as if they had been waiting for the Prussians to fire first all along. The ground shook under them as the cannons kept up their assault, their horses snorting nervously from the noise that came at them from every direction, ceaselessly pounding their ears from behind only to be answered seconds later from the front. Soon it became apparent that the guns on the Kleiner-Spitzberg and Klosterberg were having no effect, their shots falling out of range of the Russian lines, but the King's own batteries on the Walkberg were quite the opposite, bombarding the Muhlberg incessantly and with what looked to be great success, since the batteries on the Muhlberg had a lot more trouble hitting them than they did to their enemy. Smoke poured across the field, obscuring large swaths of their view and blowing the choking fumes into their face that were near suffocating in the heat.

Cannonballs struck short of them, throwing great clods of dirt in the air and the occasional bit of shrapnel would whistle by, and throughout it all Frederick sat calmly and gazed at the Muhlberg. He might as well have been a statue with how much he moved, only occasionally turning and giving out an order before his sight rested back on their target. The noise was incredible, Gilbert had not heard anything like it throughout the entire war, not even when they sieged Prague. It felt like the air was trembling and contorting like a wild beast in its death throes and if there had been a single cloud in the sky he might have believed the heavens themselves were about to split open and crash down upon their heads. All of the Prussian cannon boomed ceaselessly and as fast as their gunners could load them, playing a duet with the Russians who owned even more guns and fired their own volleys back untiringly. If the day had been hot before it was nothing compared to now, the heat of the guns and the thick smoke both creating more heat and trapping it among them like an enormous blanket, wrapping them in a veil of sweltering warmth. Sweating now only made the heat spread faster, it felt as if the moisture that was seeping from his skin was simply boiling and cooking him alive. Gods what he would have given for an order to charge, to _move _somewhere to get only a little relief, however short it would be.

An hour dragged by, the cannonade still keeping up its work and eventually the noise and tremors became mere background sensations to the work going on. Gilbert could see the Russian lines faltering on the Muhlberg, the assault ripping through them while they had no means of adequately defending themselves thanks to their poorly constructed batteries. He chuckled to himself, grinning widely as he imagined the pain Ivan must have been in now and how he could do nothing to stop it. He saw Frederick move at last, lifting his spyglass once more as if the smoke was not even there. Then his King smiled and Gilbert nearly burst out laughing, knowing that look immediately. "I think we've loosened them up sufficiently," he said with a smirk that could have matched his nation's. He wrote an order to an aide. "Now we strike while the iron is hot. Ride to Major General Schenkendorf and order his battalions to storm the Muhlberg, capture their guns and drive the Russians from the hill." He turned to Prussia after the aide galloped away, his gaze knowing. "No doubt you want to charge in with them, but I insist that you stay here for now. Schenkendorf is a capable officer and I have faith in him."

Gilbert chuckled, his blood up even though it was still on fire. "I do too, Schenkendorf is a good man and I know he'll do great. You know how we countries get, though." To say that a bloodlust came down on them would have been inaccurate, although Gilbert had no other way of explaining it. There was a sort of craze that swept through soldiers in the midst of battle, all fueled by adrenaline and energy and the more primal instincts that slept quietly in men, and Prussia felt it with all of them. When the whole army charged it was like something destroyed his rationality and he wanted to leap right in the fray with them and kill everything that stood in his way. Sometimes he would charge off without meaning to, so caught up in the feeling that he had no idea of what was doing until he was in the middle of the enemy battalions and cutting them down.

It was something Frederick knew all too well, having witnessed it many times. "I do," he replied, "but we still have our own soldiers to lead once Schenkendorf captures the guns."

There was the sound of the march soon after he said that and they watched as the first of Schenkendorf's eight grenadier battalions marched forward across the open ground, protected from the Russian guns by the land, which dipped into a wide hollow at the base of the hill that shielded them from view. Also being under bombardment from the Prussians still they could not rally to defend themselves and the grenadiers crossed the land with little trouble until they began to climb up the hill and expose themselves. In the open at last, having to climb over splintered barricades, the Prussians were a perfect target and the Russians finally fired upon them, both with cannon and musket and tore through their lines. Gilbert flinched as he felt the first casualties of the battle, sharp needle pricks of pain that attacked his shoulder that vanished as soon as they came. He watched them anxiously, his instincts shouting for him to go and help them, to protect his people at all costs, but he stayed rooted to the spot. Speed would be their only savior and the Prussian army was famous for best the fastest and most mobile in all of Europe. Schenkendorf's lines raced up the Muhlberg in perfect order despite the Russians firing on them until they formed up and unleashed their own deadly volley of muskets in return, dropping many of the Russians and giving them a moment's respite. Then they charged forward again, the first line crashing upon the Russians like a tidal wave and surging over the guns, their bayonets flashing in the light and forcing the enemy back with their superior skill of the weapon. The second line came soon after and it was only ten minutes later that the Muhlberg was swarming with blue uniforms, cheers reaching their ears as the Prussians took the enemy's guns as their reward.

"Well done, Schenkendorf!" Frederick said in delight. "Oh, if only I had the cavalry here right now instead of the left wing! Seydlitz would annihilate the rest of them easily." He shook his head a little. "It is no matter. Send word of our victory to Berlin." That caused Gilbert to raise an eyebrow—such a premature announcement did not fit the cautious nature of Frederick at all. If Fritz noticed the look he ignored it and rode off, leaving the Walkberg at last with orders to the move the cannons up to Muhlberg, and made his way to the battalions of the right wing that he would lead personally up the hill. Fink was supposed to move simultaneously with him and their sections of the right wing would smash the disorganized Russians against them like a hammer striking the anvil and send the enemy into full flight, all the while the left wing would finally launch their attack and rain further chaos into the enemy. That was Frederick's plan anyway.

It had gone well so far, but Gilbert could feel something was amiss with his men. The left was not in position yet and the reports that came to the furious Frederick all detailed how boggy the ground was once the wing was clear of the forest and ponds, filled with scraggly bush and wet mud and streams that could not simply be marched through in perfect order. Lines were constantly breaking apart and reforming, causing more delays. Fink was facing the same problem, forcing his way through brush with only pitiful single file bridges to help him cross the bogs, no doubt perfectly functional in the everyday lives of peasants but horrible for transporting an army of men within a short amount of time. He tried to explain all of this to Fritz, sensing all of the delays the terrain caused, and while Fritz listened he was impatient and hurrying to put more men on the Muhlberg. They were in a precarious position up there, reports coming back that the captured Russian guns were built of a much different caliber than the Prussian artillery men knew how to use, leaving only a handful of light cannons with a scant hundreds shots to them in use.

"Then use them!" was Frederick's reply. "Fire their own guns at them until we can push ours up there, don't let the Russians get their second wind!" He led his troops up the Muhlberg with Gilbert at his side, his previous calmness on the Walkberg gone and replaced by the energetic and fiery commander he was known for.

They planted themselves on the Muhlberg and observed the scene before them, the Russians being put into flight almost all the way to Kunersdorf, disorganized units trying to rally back together only to be shot by their own cannons. The ground between Kunerdorf and the Muhlberg sloped very gradually and was nearly flat in most places, an artillery man couldn't have wished for a more perfect terrain to send out cannon and the Prussians did so with great enthusiasm until they had gone through the rest of the ammunition that they had, leaving them bare on the hill. Moller's guns were still struggling to move forward and without them or the rest of Fink's reinforcements there was not much they could do to stop the Russians from reorganizing. The maelstrom gradually grew more and more calm, to the rising irritation of the king, as the Russians retreated behind their center lines and formed up again, Saltikov no doubt mustering his men to take up new positions.

An irritated sigh was the only sound Fritz made when he put the spyglass to his eye again. "The Russians are forming their lines in the Kuhgrund," he said, pointing to a narrow strip of land that lay between the village and the surrounding wetlands. Gilbert knew that the land formed a shallow "valley," where their enemy could safely hide from the Prussian volleys while their officers regained their lost control. "This wretched land is slowing us down too much! We need our guns and Fink's battalions here now before the Russians can fully group, it will be hell trying to blast them out of the hole they're digging themselves into."

"We can't move them any faster than we are now," Gilbert replied, knowing that above all else Frederick hated lethargy in a battle. "It is the land itself that fights us and we are powerless against that." He itched all over, excitement from his soldiers rising in him like a tide that took away the pain of his injuries like a soothing balm. His eyes scanned the forming Russian lines, looking for a certain arctic nation among them, knowing he would instantly recognize Ivan if he saw him. There was nothing that he could see, but he could sense Russia prowling around the lines, going back and forth as his presence would be an invaluable help to calming his men, a trait that all countries possessed.

"Land fighting us or not, the fact remains that we need those extra troops up here!" Frederick said taking out his snuffbox again as he waited, the jewels glittering brightly in the sun.

"One day some sharpshooter is going to see all of that sparkle and take the idea into his head to his head to try and shoot you. You make yourself an excellent target with all of that sissy stuff decorating it." Gilbert frowned at the box as if it offended him and scanned the area quickly, as if his words alone were enough to jinx them.

Fritz merely laughed as he took the snuff. "Let them try," he said, snapping the lid shut and slipping it inside his coat once more, tucking it into a breast pocket in his waist coat. "Here, I'll even put this right over my heart and foil whatever dastardly attempts are made." He put his hand over it, the gesture so overly reassuring that it bordered on mocking.

The humor was lost on Gilbert and the glare he threw his monarch showed it, anger fueled by hurt lashing out and catching Fritz by surprise. Fritz arched an eyebrow at him, his teasing demeanor vanishing under the fire in Gilbert's eyes. "Do not scoff at my concerns for you," Gilbert said in a low voice that he fought to keep calm. "It is my duty to keep you safe and I will do so at the cost of my own life, but flaunting yourself as a target is something I might not be able to protect you from. I cannot see a bullet flying through the air in the midst of a battle or protect you from accidents; it was only dumb luck that I saved you from that cannonball at Zorndorf. When you parade yourself around like that and make yourself a target you make it that much harder for me to protect you."

Frederick softened at his words, eyes glittering dangerously, while his smirk transformed into a smile that made them brighter than the sky. "Forgive me," he said just as quietly, but the words had no fire in them. "I would never make fun of your protectiveness over me, never in my life. I love it, actually, but I just wish that you would worry a bit less. It makes you paranoid and drives you to near madness. I've seen you practically tearing your hair out over small matters that have little consequences." For a moment it looked as if he was about to reach out and clasp Gilbert's hand, everyone around them be damned, but he restrained himself and instead offered another smile.

It was contagious. Gilbert felt his own worries being soothed immediately as he listened to his lover's gentle voice and saw the sincerity in his eyes, the cold mask slipping just for Gilbert alone. He smiled back, anger retreating. "Worrying about you is my job," he said, "after all it is my duty to keep you safe."

"I have the army to do that, along with my personal guard," Frederick said, indicating to the men around them as he spoke.

"All of them humans. All weak and fragile compared to the nations," Prussia told him, shaking his head. "Humans are awesome and all but sadly there are some things that they simply cannot do."

Firing cut through their conversation along with a sudden wave of pain that made Gilbert jerk around to look at the Russian lines, where he saw men falling to the ground and the plumes of smoke rising from muskets. With roars and battle cries the Prussians returned the fire, although without adequate manpower to support them they had to draw back. Frederick frowned and turned his horse around, peering down the Muhlberg to glance at Moller's cannons that were finally starting to crest the hill. "We'll do the exact same thing as before," Frederick said with a nod. "The ground here is excellent for artillery so we will fire upon their lines and then send in the infantry."

Gilbert shook his head. "You make it sound much easier than it will really be. Saltikov chose his position very well. He confined himself with Kunersdorf on his right and the wetlands to his left. We can only fight him at the Kuhgrund which is far too narrow for any maneuvers or cavalry. He'll bottle us in."

"He has bottled himself in as well," Frederick said coolly, glancing at the land again. "It will be difficult, yes, but I don't plan to fight him just there." He paused, one of his thinking silences. "I'll try to win some elbow room by driving the left-hand and center battalions through the village itself, while I lead the charge on the Kuhgrund. Fink's battalions are straggling out of the woods in individual groups but we can still use them to attack one side of the lines while I attack the other." He smirked as he said that and turned to check on the progress of Moller's guns that were finally setting themselves up on the Muhlberg and taking their aim once more.

A crawling sensation wound its way around Gilbert's back, so quickly that it caused him to shudder and look out towards the field. He couldn't see much over the village and the hills but something was happening, that sensation wasn't there for no reason. He peered out at Kunersdorf, frowning in concentration as he tried to discern what was going on down there. Nothing caught his eyes, though, and instead he focused on the tingles slowly crawling up his back, trying to pinpoint the activity that way. Roderich came to his mind as he did and the Austrian's distinct "feel" invaded his senses all the way to his fingertips. Loudon was finally moving.

The fire of cannons started up again, aiming for the Russians and spraying them with case shot even as more men rushed to reinforce them. For the most part the Russians hid inside the shallow valley that the Kuhgrund created while the shells crashed into them, using the lay of the land to defend themselves from the assault. Back on the Muhlberg they had been exposed and open but in their new lines they had protection that provided a bit more relief from the hail of iron, but it still pounded them nevertheless. Frederick, while being known for his patience on many occasions, had no such virtues on the battlefield and he paced like an animal in a cage, glancing at Fink's approaching units until he finally had enough and leaped back onto his horse with a swirl of his coattails. "We're going to attack them," he said shortly, gesturing for Gilbert to follow him as he rode to the lines of infantry that were awaiting their King's order. They cheered when Frederick drew his sword and held it above his head, giving the order to march and starting forward with them.

Of course the Russians opened fire on them as they drew closer and the Prussians sent their own fire forward, but their march was unstoppable and plowed forward like the great indomitable machine that the Prussian army was. Screams filled the air and smoke made it nearly impossible to see as the columns became tighter, the men so packed together that it was difficult to even move. Too many men in such a confined area and the fighting was quickly becoming a repeat of what happened at Zorndorf, such close quarters often had the men reaching for their bayonets rather than just shooting. Gilbert groaned to himself as the deaths of his people truly started to pile up now that they were properly fighting the Russians, feeling the wounds start to scratch open along his sides. That was how they always started, as scratches.

His King was a whirlwind of energy that seemed to be everywhere at once, always right in the thickest heat of the battle shouting and ordering, his mere presence doing more for the soldiers than his words ever could. Bullets whistled by him and he paid them no heed, riding through them as carelessly as if they were as harmless as rain with Gilbert right behind him. The Russians were fighting furiously, the brief lull in time they had given allowed them to reform as Frederick feared and they were dug into their lines hard like stones while the waves of the Prussians pounded at them like the tides of an ocean, unceasing and relentless. Gilbert laughed at them, relishing in his chance to finally fight as he charged forward with one of the battalions, drawing his sword and swinging it with a deadly force that sliced through men's bodies with ease, their blood gushing into the air. He would wait for them to fire first before swooping down upon them and killing them; they stood no chance against the mad country, his sword simply cleaved through their guns if their tried to block his blows before it cleaved through them as well.

But there was a small portion of his sanity that was always mindful of where Frederick was. He never left his side for long and when he noticed Fritz going off somewhere else he would turn immediately and follow him, constantly watching for any signs of danger. Fire was all around them, the heat of the day becoming debilitating in the midst of the battle and blood and smoke, it was not just a separate sensation anymore, it seemed to have become so ingrained in his being that it was impossible to tell how hot he was truly feeling since the only thing he could feel now was pain and the slightest dizziness. The smoke sometimes obscured his vision and he would have to rush forward to catch sight of Fritz again while fighting Donner, who just wanted to rush right back into the battle.

It was during one of these moments of blindness that he was looking for Fritz, swiveling his head around as he rode though a patch of smoke that was just starting to clear. A magnificent flash of fire sprang up in front of him, Russian muskets all being discharged and immediately afterward came the unmistakable scream of a horse in agony. Rising like some specter from a nightmare he saw a white horse rearing through the smoke, bright red blood splashed along its flank and its rider being thrown clear from its back to disappear once more in the smoke. "Fritz!" he screamed, terror crashing through him as he lost sight of his king. He plowed his horse through the ground that had separated them and stopped abruptly just short of where he had seen Fritz fall, causing Donner to squeal at him for the rough yank to his reins. "Fritz!" he yelled again, his voice being carried away by the gunfire and screaming all around them. Where was Frederick? Was he hurt? Oh gods did Scipio fall on him or trample him in his pain and now he was lying injured on the ground somewhere? The horse was nowhere to be seen and the smoke so thick that Donner's hooves vanished into it. Gilbert slid out of the saddle, the idea of riding blindly into the smog and possibly stepping on his king with his own horse making him wary. "_Friedrich!" _he finally screamed in desperation, his fear nearly making him choke on the words.

"Here!" came the reply at last, a figure rising to its feet slowly. Gilbert was at his side in an instant, pulling him to his feet as he put his hat back on his head. "I'm fine," Fritz reassured him, "I just got thrown off." He frowned as Gilbert pushed him away and inspected him as quickly as he could while being in the middle of a battle. "I mean it, I wouldn't lie to you."

"I'm just making sure," Gilbert said and pulled Fritz by the wrist, quickly guiding them through the smoke and bullets back to where Donner stood. He was just about to tell Fritz to get on when their aides and guards caught up to them, one of them already leading a spare horse for the king. Since Frederick rode into the fray of things so often they had decided it would be prudent to keep a spare horse nearby just in case such accidents happened.

Frederick grasped the reins and easily vaulted onto the saddle with Gilbert watching him for any signs of dizziness or pain. The king seemed unscathed, just like he had told his nation, and Gilbert let out a small prayer of thanks to whichever deity that decided to spare him. Treating the whole affair as if it were nothing more than a minor inconvenience Fritz went right back to what he had been doing, Gilbert tailing him like a shadow. The fighting was getting fiercer, more Russians piling up, replacing a man as quickly as he fell, but the Prussians were relentless and pressed onward. Gilbert could see the Russians weren't gaining any ground, and if they could not then they would eventually give up under the assault. Frederick knew that too, and he was sending orders for Fink's men to attack the Kuhgrund as soon as they got through the wetlands to the left, knowing that there were now enough of them to form a sizable force against the enemy.

Pressed on by two sides now instead of one—Fink's men and artillery trudging uphill through the mud and rickety bridges and fighting like demons every step of the way—the Russians began to cave in. Sensing their weakness Fritz threw more men at them and the soldiers went willingly, knowing the lines were close to breaking. They began to win more ground, foot by precious foot through iron and blood, until at long last the Russian line broke under them a second time and the Russians fled once more. Screams of victory rose across the Prussians as they pursued, chasing them out of the Kuhgrund and nearly to Kunserdorf itself.

Prussia watched the spectacle with a grin, a laugh erupting from him at the sight. Not once, but twice the Russians pushed back from their own positions! The battle had not been won by a long shot as they still had the Austrian cavalry and the rest of the Russians to deal with, but the fact that it had been done at all amazed him. Especially with the terrain and heat fighting them so much, they had lost as much men to heatstroke as they had to the Russian guns, or so it seemed. He paused to check his watch once more. Three in the afternoon. The men had been marching since before dawn and had been fighting for nearly four hours now, he could feel their exhaustion dragging him down as if his bones were made of stone and shook his head a little at the feeling. He turned to Fritz, who was now at this point surrounded by some of his officers, Generals Fink, Schenkendorf, and Lindstedt among them, even Colonel Moller had been called, along with aides from many of the others.

"We should stop now, Your Majesty, while we still have the advantage," Fink was saying. His uniform was spattered with mud and damp from the wetlands that he and his men had doggedly forced their way through but he stood as straight as ever. "The men are tired and to push them further would exhaust their strength completely." Around him there were nods but no one dared speak out loud.

Frederick's eyes narrowed a little and Gilbert felt his spine stiffen. He knew that look also and it sent his stomach spiraling downwards. "We are not done, though," Fritz replied, his voice as calm as if he was informing them that it would rain tomorrow. "We have simply driven the Russians away from their positions, not beaten them."

For the first time that day Gilbert felt a chill along his skin and if it had been from anything other than pure horror then he would have welcomed it. He swallowed and contemplated speaking even though an argument would ensue if he did, but someone beat him to it.

"That in of itself is a magnificent feat, owing to the brilliance of His Majesty and the courageous actions of our troops, who fight like lions even in these circumstances," Schenkendorf said, his eyes flicking to Gilbert for the briefest of moments and fully acknowledging where those traits came from. "But even the strongest men have their limits. The day has dragged on long enough and no one has been able to command something as simple as a drink of water. If we push the troops farther they will surely fall. We have won so far and all we must do now is wait and the allies will have to retreat by nightfall." More nods came and in that moment Gilbert could have kissed him; the nation knew that he would have never been able to word his concerns as eloquently as that.

The king was unmoved. A brief second had passed where it looked as if Schenkendorf's words had some sort of effect but it was gone as quickly as it came. "And what do the other generals think?" he asked, sweeping his gaze over them all before landing on Gilbert.

Seydlitz, who had actually ridden all the way from the left wing to speak with the king rather than send an aide, nodded firmly. "I agree with Major General Schenkendorf," he said. "The troops are tired and thirsty and have done enough for the day. To seek out more laurels after this victory we've already obtained would be foolish and mad." Where Schenkendorf's words had been refined as silk, Seydlitz's were wool that struck as bluntly as clubs. Gilbert winced as he heard them. He was well aware that Seydlitz could have as gilded of a tongue as any of the men in the meeting, paired with his natural charm that always made him irresistible, but the General had always been able to enjoy a certain liberty of being openly frank with Frederick and was one of the handful that did, another being Gilbert himself.

Hot-tempered as Seydlitz was, he sometimes failed to notice when such language that had previously been tolerated would not be put up with now. Frederick gave the cavalry officer a frosty look that stopped the younger man in his tracks, alarm quickly flashing through his eyes as he realized his mistake and the effects it had. He opened his mouth, whether to apologize or to try and mend the damage Gilbert never found out, for Frederick turned away from his general and the words died on the man's lips. "And you, Colonel Moller?" he asked in a tone that could have put a skin of ice over water.

The colonel suppressed a flinch and voiced his affirmative while Seydlitz threw Gilbert a look over the king's head, the plea for help written clearly on his face. Gilbert nodded to him, trying to be as discreet as he could, and saw a wan smile appear in return. He did not have the heart to crush Seydlitz's hopes. He supported the general's opinion wholeheartedly but he knew better than any of them how outrageously stubborn Fritz could be once he made up his mind about something. They all had faith in him, they had seen how his words alone seemed to reach Frederick while all other arguments failed. A cold truth settled in Prussia's gut, though; Frederick loathed things that were half-done, especially a battle. It had to be a certain victory or defeat in his eyes, he would have it no other way.

When Frederick finally got to him, the searching stare piercing through his head as if Fritz could read all of his thoughts like a book, he squared his shoulders and tried not to look as defeated as he felt. "General Beilschmidt?" Fritz said quietly, his melodic voice filled with a weight that only now showed itself.

Of course everyone present knew who he really was. All the higher officers that spent a large amount of time around Fritz did and they looked to him with something akin to reverence as they waited for words. He was Prussia, his words had a different influence than theirs, he was intimately connected to the people and land and his knowledge of what his men could do surpassed theirs. "The good Generals Seydlitz, Fink, and Schenkendorf, among many others are right. I fear that if we press on now then we will lose the advantage that we fought so hard to gain." The wounds on his side flared as he said that, reminding him of the sacrifices made, and he ignored the pain. "If your horse was lathering then would you still whip it and force it to run until it dropped dead? Of course not. Why, then, would you want to do it to men who in much of the same condition?" Normally Gilbert would have sided with his leader, it was rare for him not to, however the wellbeing of his people was one of the few things that outweighed his love for Fritz. It was a situation that Fritz never won.

Frederick's expression turned inward, an unseen veil drawing itself over his features. "I see," was all he said, tapping the head of his cane to his lips as he turned away from them all, deep in thought.

The only response he could give to the confused looks thrown his way was a shrug. Something must have been showing on his face, though, because he saw the alarm in Seydlitz's face amplify until the man had turned pale. _He can't, _Seydlitz mouthed to him, gesturing to Fritz. Gilbert shook his head again, the stone feeling heavier with each passing second. Fritz always made his decisions quickly, thinking them over could hardly mean anything good.

The silence felt much longer than it really was, so when Frederick finally turned back around Gilbert sighed in relief. It stopped when Fritz looked straight at him. "How is the left wing's condition?" he asked.

Oh no. Oh _no. _His stomach crashed somewhere in the vicinity of his boots while the cold seeped deeper into his body. "Other than being heat exhausted, fine," Gilbert replied, his mouth working on its own and forming the words while his brain was still stupefied by the question. Fritz was out of his mind, he was going to do it why _why—_

"They have hardly yet been in the fire!" Fritz said and turned to Seydlitz. "Ride back to your cavalry Lieutenant General Seydlitz and await my orders there. The left wing, horse and foot, shall come around from the swamps they are in now and storm the Grosser-Spitzberg like we did the Muhlberg."

He really had lost his mind! Prussia blinked for a few moments and listened to Fritz giving the orders, his voice sounding distant as if it was coming from far away. Some of the others glanced at him again as if waiting for something, but when he showed no signs of acknowledging them they had to ride off to follow the commands given to them. Gilbert might have been able to work miracles with Frederick that the generals could not but at the end of the day Fritz was still his king and his word was law. He could not hold his tongue forever and by the time the last aide had ridden off his numb shock had lifted to be replaced with a slowly growing anger. "I thought we agreed that the Grosser-Spitzberg was too heavily defended to be taken," he said acidly.

Fritz turned to face him, surprised at Gilbert's tone. "Not while we have the Kuhgrund," he said with a shake of his head. "And if we are to advance any further we need to take out the guns on the Grosser-Spitzberg or else they will bombard our lines as we leave the Kuhgrund. But attacking the hill from both sides at once will cause it to crumble."

"We shouldn't be advancing at all!" Gilbert snapped. Ignoring Fritz's widened eyes he continued. "You ask the men for too much! Yes they would follow you to hell and back but you cannot run them into the ground like this. They are men, not animals or machines for you to push until they break!" He realized that his voice had been rising and he stopped himself before he could start shouting and let the whole countryside hearhim.

He ignored the glare that Fritz was giving him, the confusion caused by his words wearing off to be replaced by a rage that turned his leader's eyes into chips of sharpened ice. "These soldiers have done everything I could possibly ask of them and even more." The words were like daggers, spoken with that cold and scathing tone that Frederick had perfected and readily used as a weapon in the past. "You underestimate what they are capable of."

The complete faith that Fritz had in his soldiers would have been very touching and if they had not been in a battle then Gilbert was certain his heart would have melted from hearing them, but now they served only to fan the flames of his anger. "I _underestimate _them?!" he repeated, almost whispering. "I _am _them! I know better than anyone in the world what they are capable of and what they will do! Are you listening to a single word I say you damned—" Like Seydlitz before him he realized where his words were taking him and quickly reigned in his tongue before it could go any further. Judging by Fritz's face, though, he had already said more than enough.

"Go on," Frederick said quietly, razor-edged words spoken in a too-calm voice that he had heard only once before. "Finish it. What am I?"

Confronted with his leader's frigid challenge, Gilbert felt the flames inside of him sputtering and dying out as they hit the wall of cold that Fritz had thrown up in front of him. Whatever words he was going to say vanished and he could not have remembered them if he tried. He gaped for a moment at Frederick, floundering under the glare that was grinding all of his protests to dust under its boots while Fritz looked on, waiting defiantly for the words that would never come. He was saved by the return of one of the aides who stepped in to announce that the left wing was moving and almost in position. Frederick turned from him then, leaving Gilbert a splintered mess that was both screaming that this whole plan was a bad idea and wailing about how he couldn't do anything to stop it.

A cough jerked him out of his self-destructive thoughts and he was alarmed to see that the sound had come from Fritz. The king took his face out of the crook of his arm and cleared his throat, reaching for his flask as he did so. "It's so damned hot here," he said out loud, still pointedly not looking at Gilbert even though his voice had lost much of its coldness. "The dust sticks in the throat and makes it hard to breathe without choking." He drank from it, going through his fifth flask of the day before he set it down with a hollow thunk.

There would be more to come, the day was not done with them yet and heat still seeped into every pore of the land with little signs of stopping. And Fritz was only a human, a fragile human that could not take the strain that nations could and often did. Before he knew what he was doing Gilbert was unbuckling his canteen for the second time that day, the action pure instinct on his part. He tossed the half-full container at Fritz without even looking at him and heard Fritz fumbling as he tried to catch it. "Keep it, the last bit of the peasant's water is in there," he said, surprised at how impassive his voice sounded to his own ears. "You need it more than I do."

The stare prickled his neck but he refused to turn around and meet Fritz's gaze. "But—"

"No buts," he interrupted, "trust me Fritz, you'll be glad I gave that to you when the assault begins." Silence met his words but the stare remained and he could hear Fritz uncapping the canteen, another victory for him. The tension between them was thick, though, smothering them just like the torrid air. But he would not apologize. Not when he was right. Sometimes Fritz needed to be told that he was being stupid and arrogant, screw whatever hissy fit he decided to throw afterwards, he needed people around him that weren't afraid to tell him such things. Before there had been Winterfeldt and Schwerin and Keith, but they were all dead now. Seydlitz could get away with it provided that the king was in a good mood and Zieten could if he were around all the time, which left only Gilbert to tell Frederick the things he did not wish to hear.

Knowing Fritz and his obstinacy, combined with the occasional arrogance, he would not apologize either. Especially not when he believed himself to be right, too.

The left wing soon moved into position and Frederick was off to go to a better position to see them from, Gilbert right behind him as usual. They hardly spoke a few words to each other outside of exchanging information and opinions on the enemy, all of it formal and clipped. Gilbert gritted his teeth, annoyance flaring in him. The cohesion had gone from the two of them; usually he and Fritz were able to operate like two halves of a whole on the field, one to plan and one to fight, Frederick's genius and fire combined with Prussia's infinite military knowledge and his connection with the soldiers creating a perfect duo that ruled the battlefield. Now instead of fitting together seamlessly they chafed at each other, distance ruling their interactions.

From their new position they could see the Grosser-Spitzberg, swarmed with her guns and green uniforms like disturbed ants. Across from them were the Prussians in wait, ready for the signal that would send them rushing forward into the jaws of the batteries and guns, into what had to be a certain death to Gilbert. He knew the hill could be taken, no position was indefeasible, but at least they could try to destroy the defenses with cannons first! The infantry moved forward then, intending to storm the hill the same way Schenkendorf's grenadiers had with the Muhlberg, but they were met with a hail of case shot that tore through their ranks mercilessly. Gilbert had to bite down on his lip to stop himself from crying out at the sudden wave of pain that came over him, more intense than anything he had felt so far during the battle. The scratches in his sides slowly ripped open, becoming more like lacerations, and he felt the blood seeping out of them to soak into his shirt. The men tried, bless them they tried so hard to climb the hill the same way their comrades had earlier and earn the glory of capturing a hill, too. It was too much for them, however, there were more guns here than the Muhlberg and fresh troops and to his dismay Gilbert saw their lines faltering, pushed back by the storm of iron that decimated their men and dropped them like flies.

Frederick's disappointment was palpable as he watched the Prussian attack falter for the first time that day. He did not say anything at first and gazed at the troops as if hoping they would pick themselves up and suddenly storm the lines as if they had become invulnerable to the fire. When no such miracle occurred he beckoned to an aide. "Send a message to Lieutenant General Seydlitz, order him to lead a cavalry attack on the hill." The aide quickly galloped off, racing across the edge of the woods and occasionally through the bullets around him.

"And just how in the world do you expect Seydlitz to take those cannons with a charge on horseback?" Gilbert demanded, unable to keep his silence any longer. What the hell was Frederick even thinking? The horses would be slaughtered under the cannonfire!

"Seydlitz is brilliant, he saved us at Zorndorf, he can make something happen here," Frederick said as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

His hands clenched around the reins and Gilbert thought he was about to suffer an aneurysm. What sort of answer was that? Yes Seydlitz was brilliant and the best cavalry officer in the entire army but the man couldn't just pull miracles out of his ass! Thankfully Seydlitz knew his own limits and the aide was soon running back with a refusal, Seydlitz informing Frederick that the land was not suitable for cavalry and too wet.

Frederick sent him back furiously, ordering the younger general once again. "He goes too far," he said as he watched the aide make his way back down the hill. "All because I let him have his way with Zorndorf!" He turned his horse abruptly and started heading back to the Kuhgrund. "Come, Gilbert, we shall make our attack the same time Seydlitz does."

Prussia shook his head a little and just followed Fritz, clenching his teeth as every movement from Donner jarred his sides and sent lances of pain throughout his entire chest. Mentally he reached out for the other soldiers, those not yet in the battle and unhurt and drew strength from them, reducing the pain to a dull throb that never quite went away but at least it stopped hurting so much. Down in the Kuhgrund again Frederick rallied his men, who cheered his name even as they forced themselves to their feet through their weariness and stood behind him. He was their Fritz, the one who had led the through so many victories, and he would lead them through this one as well. Frederick seated himself at their head again, Schenkendorf somewhere nearby, and ordered them to march forward to attack the Russians once more. They had to climb down into the Kuhgrund itself, the dip in the ground hiding everything from their view, before climbing up to the other side.

Where they were immediately ripped apart by the Russian cannons and muskets that had been waiting for them, the muzzles pointing at the edge of the Kuhgrund and firing the moment anyone dared poke their head out too far. Gilbert screamed along with his men as he felt it, pain exploding across his stomach as scores of Prussians tumbled backwards from the edge, bleeding and lifeless and falling upon their own comrades. The world lurched from the pain that shook his senses and he was certain that he was about to fall out of the saddle but when his vision cleared he was amazed to find himself still mounted, gripping the pommel of his saddle so hard his fingers were cramping. Fritz was watching him, concern written clearly on his face as he watched Gilbert try to sit back up and pretend that nothing had happened.

The line began to falter, the guns destroying the famed Prussian order with their devastation as some of the men stepped back, trying to retreat back behind the valley where the shot could not reach them, while dead bodies still fell backward and tangled among those who were still trying to climb up. In an instant Frederick was among them, rallying and animating them with his voice, giving new orders everywhere he turned and sometimes even laying his cane across the soldiers' backs to get them to move forward. If invading the Kuhgrund had been hard enough it was nothing compared to the fight now, lines and lines of soldiers forcing their way up only to be cut down like so many grains of wheat before the scythe and their comrades behind them pushed on! Bullets and cannons and grape shot were everywhere, he could hear it whistling all around them and the screams as some of them found a victim. More than once Gilbert nearly tackled Frederick to the ground as he got too close to the ledge and he was fired upon, but he always managed to somehow escape unharmed. The same could not be said for Gilbert, each death opened his wounds more and more and he felt his clothes sticking to his skin as the blood oozed from them. He could see his waistcoat was starting to grow red splotches and soon his coat and breeches would as well, no longer hiding his suffering from the world.

Harder they pushed and harder they fell. The might of the Prussian army, often likened to a living machine, was no match for its real metal counterpart. As their discipline vanished confusion took hold and many of them tried to turn and run, only to be pushed back by their courageous allies and causing the flow of the battle to be even more chaotic as the men tried to go two different ways. Frederick ran among them, keeping his control by only a thin rein as he appeared in the thick of everything, his voice triumphing over the thunderous cannons and screams of the dying. Not even he could keep everything together, though, and some of the men tried to run anyway.

Gilbert was trying his own way to rally them, knowing the presence of a nation among his men had a deep effect that not even they were aware about caused them to fight even harder. He felt sick as he did, knowing that encouraging them would only make them try to climb that deadly lip and ultimately meet their death there. The pain was returning, brought back to life by the renewed injuries in his sides. The left wing was failing, too.

"We need to climb, my children, do not desert me now!" Frederick was yelling to the troops, speaking in German as he pointed to the edge of the Kuhgrund. "We must storm them and win!"

Prussia panted, hot blood dripping into his clothes from the death everywhere and the pain rapidly destroying his self-control. "I warned you that this would happen!" he yelled at his king, holding his hand to his stomach as he rode after him.

Frederick turned back to him, worried eyes instantly going to the blood that was spreading across his clothes. "We have fought against the odds before—" he began.

Gilbert never let him get that far. "When we knew that we could push ourselves and that the men would be fine with it! Goddammit you fool why can't you listen to what anyone ever tells you?!" he roared those words as another spasm of pain wracked through him and loosened his jaw, allowing him say things that he would have never dared say with half of a rational mind. "This always happens; you think you know better than everyone else around you, more than the generals that command their troops and know their limits, more than _me _and I am your army! I feel what happens to the men, they are me and I am them and when I warn you of what will happen you go on with your plans anyway and act as if everything afterwards comes as such a big fucking surprise!" He ignored the utterly bewildered look that Frederick was giving him and plowed straight on, uncaring of common sense or whatever wrath his words would incur, he just needed to say them finally. "This is not even the first time this has happened, either! Remember Hochkirch? Everyone warned you about the Austrians and you refused to listen and Keith died because of your stupid arrogance!"

Too far. He knew the moment those words left his lips that he had gone too far but his did not care, to see Fritz finally comprehend what he was saying and actually listen to him was a glorious sight to see. Moments later he regretted it, those words had been arrows aimed directly at Frederick's heart and he knew they would hurt him deeply. Fritz still had not forgiven himself for the death of one of his closest friends and the raw hurt that flashed in his eyes at Gilbert's words sent a knife of pain into the immortal man's soul. It lasted only a second, though, and vanished under the wave of fury that transformed Frederick's face as his suffering was burned away. Gilbert had never seen his King look so terrifying.

For once Frederick seemed to have no words, just a battle of emotions that played out over his face, anger and hurt and sadness all fighting for dominance until anger was the clear victor. As he opened his mouth a scream of terror went up among the lines, causing them both to look and see what the problem was. The men were falling over each other and pointing at something sailing through the sky towards the Prussian lines, far too big to be a cannonball and awkwardly shaped, twisting in the air as it flew. Gilbert only managed to catch impressions of what the object was, his mind refusing to comprehend it in its entirety. The long barrel and spinning wheels, the awkward frame that made its turning even more convoluted as it sailed right for them.

Frederick's horse screamed and dashed away, but Gilbert had been too slow in reaching for his reins and he managed to only get Donner partially turned before he realized it would be pointless and instead tried to jump out of the saddle. He made it only halfway before the artillery cannon crashed into him and his mount, slamming into them and sending them both flying as if struck by the hand of a god. Gilbert's vision flashed a bright, painful red and somewhere he heard Donner screaming in agony before his own pain ripped through his body, along his back and legs and chest, and turned his world gray for a while.

He couldn't have passed out for more than a few seconds, for he came awake very suddenly as pieces of the destroyed cannon rolled by him, crushing more soldiers in its wake. All at once his body screamed at him and his knew his bones were broken, they tingled and itched as his body's enhanced healing started to take effect right away and he reached out to his healthy soldiers to help the process speed up. He forced himself to his feet, stumbling as the world had to right itself, and saw his horse stretched in front of him, dead from taking brunt force of the cannon. He looked around wildly for Fritz and sighed in relief when he saw his ruler unharmed, but staring at him in worry that soon changed to horror when he looked back over the line.

Gilbert followed his line of sight and gasped when he saw the green of Russian uniforms mingling with the Prussian blue along the ridge of the Kuhgrund. The enemy infantry had charged them during their shock and was now trying to win back the land they had been driven from, bayonet and sword clashing together in a furious melee. But among them was a figure he recognized instantly, towering over the other men with his sheer size and height, his pale features as distinctive as Gilbert's own. He was also recognizable by the fact that he was carrying another cannon over his shoulder as if it weighed no more than a feather.

Russia caught his eyes immediately, he was too far away for Gilbert to see his expression but he moved so fast the Gilbert barely had time to register that the other cannon was flying for him as well before he dove out of the way and let it crash behind him. The cries of his people as the cannon smashed into them enraged Gilbert and for once he allowed himself to revel in their pain and let it fuel his anger for the northern nation standing above him. Who was no longer standing where he had been a second ago.

Shock froze him in place and then instinct kicked in. He was unsheathing his sword and ducking out of the way of a blur that he had only barely noticed rushing for him. Russia's blade sliced the air where his head had been and did not give him the chance to counter, swinging back down so he had to raise his own sword to block it. Their blades met with a clash of steel and neither of them moved, pausing for the barest second to size each other up. Ivan was of course bloodied from all of the fighting going on, his green field marshal uniform spattered with it and one side of his face drenched, causing his violet eyes to leap out even more at him. He was not smiling, not even with his eyes, and that fact made Gilbert's heart freeze. He almost had to remind it to start beating again.

The hand that held Ivan's sword was trembling—in fact his whole body was shaking slightly. He had just enough time to notice that before Ivan pushed his whole weight against him, nearly boring him to the ground with his immense strength, but Gilbert snarled and held on, pushing back against him. Ivan had always been the strongest of all the countries, but Gilbert with his amazing and disciplined army could easily rival him in strength now. He pushed hard against Ivan, throwing him back a step and ducking under his arms to ram his shoulder into the Russian's stomach. There was a loud cough and a wheeze even though it felt like he just smashed himself into a stone wall and he felt Ivan bending over a little. Using his close quarters advantage knowing that Ivan's sword could not reach him, his hand flew to the small of his back where a knife sheath rested under his coat. The knife was huge, curved and practically a small sword, and like all of his knives it was extremely sharp. He quickly plunged the dagger into Ivan's side and pushed as hard as he could. The blade easily ripped upwards until a hand closed around his throat in a vice grip. Suddenly he was lifted off his feet like a doll and held in the air while Ivan's fingers tried to crush his neck. He choked and lashed out with a foot, intending to catch Ivan in the face with it but the nation's other hand grabbed it as well.

He had little time to think before he was being thrown through the air the same way Ivan had thrown the cannons and he slammed against the sloped ground of the hill, stars flashing in his eyes from the impact. Blinking away the pain Gilbert leaped back to his feet, holding his sword in front of him as he watched Ivan rip the dagger out of his side, unmindful of the blood that poured from the gash. Ivan didn't seem to notice anything at all, his face still holding that terrifying blankness to it even as the wound gushed freely. "Hello again, _Prussiyah," _Russia said, his voice as dark and cold as a moonless winter night.

"Hey there fuckface," Prussia replied, grinning and trying not to flinch from the pain of his wounds. "How about you go the fuck away before my men skewer you alive?" He chuckled, seeing how surrounded Russia was in the Kuhgrund, rather than on top of it like his men were. He could see Fritz riding up to them, surrounded by his guard and looking none too happy that the enemy nation was in their lines.

Russia laughed a little, the sound unlike anything Gilbert had ever heard him make. It was unpleasant and reminded him of sharpness, of something with claws and teeth that loved to tear weaker animals apart for the fun of it. "I'm sorry, but mine were here first," Ivan replied with a smile at last. It wasn't like any of his other smiles at all, which were honey-sweet and deceptively innocent, this smile looked to have been carved on his face with a knife. He started walking towards Gilbert and was halted by the rows of bayonets and swords that pointed at him. Ivan chuckled and shook his head, his eyes pitying. "We're going to have to run you out of here, dear Gilbert, along with all of your Prussians."

The simple tone that he spoke made some of the Prussians shift uneasily, looking amongst each other. Fritz narrowed his eyes and signaled to his guards as if to take the Russian into custody. Gilbert smirked at him, trying to show more confidence than he felt. "And how will you do that when you trapped yourself down here with us?" he asked, waving his hand dramatically around him, his sword still pointed at Ivan's heart.

Ivan's smile grew wider. A strange light entered his eyes, something cold and sadistic that grinned at what was to come. "Oh, I just came for you," he said, stepping forward again, ignoring the bayonets, his posture rigid and face something alien and inhumane. "I'm going to break you. I will break all of your bones as if they were glass and I shall paint this field with your blood and your Prussians' blood." His head tilted imperceptibly to view Fritz out of the corner of his eye. "And with your King's blood."

Rage poured into Gilbert's veins, burning away his self-control in white-hot streams that made him see red red red, pulsing in time with his pounding heart. It felt like every cell in his body was on fire, erupting in a volcanic ferocity that narrowed his whole field of vision down to Ivan and that damned smiled of his. _NO! How dare you, how _dare _you—_ He leaped at Ivan with a screech, his sword flashing in his hand as he tried to bring it down upon that stupid grinning face with all his strength. He found himself parried and lashed out again and again, attacking the larger nation with a series of quick, aggressive blows that put Ivan on the defensive until he sidestepped one of Gilbert's swings unleashed his own attack.

The two nations whirled through the Prussians, scattering them as the men had to scramble to get out of the way of the flying steel. It was unlike anything the men had ever seen before, nothing remotely related to duels of the day that were a gentleman's affair, it was raw and unhinged, the clash of steel on steel echoing throughout the Kuhgrund as the fighters tried to hack each other to pieces. Suddenly the blows were struck, Prussia stabbing Ivan through the gut even as Russia's sword opened up a wound on his chest and shoulder that caused a magnificent spray of blood to shoot into the air. Cries came from all around and Ivan yanked the sword out of his body, moving faster than Gilbert could react and slamming his body into the smaller nation's.

Gilbert felt his feet leave the ground before he was hitting it again, hard, and bouncing along it until it felt like his brain was rattling around in his skull. Dazed from the attack, he didn't notice Russia's approach until a large hand closed over his collar and yanked him up. He twisted and fought but the grip did not relent and he felt himself being _dragged_ over the ground, practically carried while he heard the Prussians screaming his name and Ivan threw him yet again, tossing him over the lip of the Kuhgrund and into a group of men who were bowled over as he crashed into them. Russians. He scrambled to his feet, looking wildly about him and seeing nothing but green and red uniforms as Ivan climbed out after him, chuckling.

"Whose lines are we behind now, Gilbert?" Ivan asked pleasantly, twirling his scarf around one of his hands. His eyes swept over his soldiers, who all stiffened under the scrutiny. "No one touches the Field Marshal," he ordered in Russian, starting forward. "He is mine."

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><p><strong>AN: YOU GUYS BETTER STRAP YOURSELVES IN BECAUSE BOY WE ARE GOING FOR ONE HELL OF A RIDE.**

**I feel ridiculously proud at the fact that this is the only prompt that I actually had to make a specific music playlist for while I was writing it. No story has ever, ever done that to me.**

**I have wanted to write this battle for. ev. er. And since I have been sitting on this idea and building upon it for maybe even a year now you can see what happens when I do. I've had two books and four internet tabs opened for research on this and I'm trying to be as accurate as possible when describing what happens here so the details are as accurate as I can make them, even down to the time the battle began (which was in fact 11:30 am exactly) and the second assault that started at 3 pm. Also I would like to mention that when Frederick STARTED his march to carry out his original strategy, the army began marching at about 2 am, so everyone has been awake for _quite _some time.**

**Interestingly enough, historians speculate that if Frederick actually had stopped his assault and waited after he won the Muhlberg then the battle could have very easily been a Prussian victory since his enemies would have been forced to retreat when darkness fell and leave him as the owner of the field. But alas, Frederick has always been known as being a very aggressive military commander (not to mention he had a very annoying habit of not listening to what others told him, even when they were right, and having it come back and bite him in the ass later) and that cost him dearly. **

**The only part of this that is pretty much not true is the peasant coming up and giving Fritz some water, that actually happened the day _before _the battle when the king was scouting out the area but it was so danged sweet to read that I had to fit it in. I also probably didn't mention General Lindstedt as much as I should since technically it was him and Schenkendorf who commanded the lines that stormed the Muhlberg but I couldn't really do it without making the story sound clunky, and Schenkendorf plays a bigger role later. But I'm being accurate with the whole heat thing, I know I keep mentioning but all the sources I have like to mention that the day was extremely hot, hotter than was usual for that time of year and that played a crucial role in the battle since the soldiers were exhausted more quickly and many of them just dropped out of heatstroke.**

**Also cookies for anyone who gets the very tiny Avatar reference I made in here :D Until the next part lovelies!**


	22. Hell pt 2

**You know what let's make it a new part gets posted every day, I'm impatient like that. It'll do wonders for motivation, too. Sorry that this part is considerably shorter than the previous one but now that a new challenger has appeared the story picks up in pace quite a lot so we have more dramatic scene changes.**

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><p>"Gilbert!" Frederick yelled as he watched Russia drag Gilbert like a dog over to the top of the Kuhgrund. His blood froze as he realized what the other nation was trying to do. "Stop him!" he shouted to the soldiers around him and pointed to the two nations struggling up the hill.<p>

Bullets did not hinder the massive nation, bayonets were knocked aside by the sweeping of his sword, and men were bowled over like pins in his wake. Soldiers could not slow him, despite all of their efforts, and he barreled through the men over the lip of the valley like a bear and threw Gilbert in front of him yet again. "Gilbert!" he yelled again as he saw his nation disappear. As if hearing him, Russia turned around and looked right at him. They stared at each other for a moment before Russia smiled and disappeared.

No! He was not about to leave Gilbert with that sadistic monster for another second! He had seen the look on Russia's face, heard the chill in his voice when he threatened to spill all of their blood onto the ground—Frederick's especially. He shuddered, a pit forming in his stomach at the memory and of Gilbert's terrifying reaction afterwards. "Form up!" he ordered, his voice carrying across the entire valley and galvanizing the men into action. They snapped awake from whatever bewildered state Russia had put them into and they picked up their weapons to charge forward again, climbing over their dead to reach the top and help the officer they had all seen captured. And Gilbert had been so doubtful of them!

The fighting was renewed with vigor, the Prussians pushing forward relentlessly and managing to gain a few feet of ground from the Russians, mostly because the cannons did not want to fire upon their own men. Frederick rode up to the new lines, whipping his head about as he searched frantically for his nation among the bodies of blue and green. It did not take long, some of the Russians had formed a semicircle around the battling countries, watching in amazement as their blades clashed and sang, far too fast for a normal human being to swing, their movements fluid and almost blurred. Frederick felt himself gasp; already he could see new wounds on Gilbert's body that had not been there minutes ago. How in the world had he been injured again so quickly? Gilbert was the best swordsman he knew!

"Help General Beilschmidt!" he called, pointing as his men rallied around him to push forward into the Russians.

They were met with storms of bullets that buzzed in the air as thickly as flies and lines of men that stood so tight together that it was like trying to fight through a wall instead of men, just like the Prussians had done themselves. Fritz could see even more Russians running down to join the fray, planning to overwhelm them with numbers alone while the Prussians fought like devils, fighting tooth and nail for every victory and every enemy they fell. Frederick noticed all of this but he did not care, he only had eyes for two people in the field.

Gilbert and Ivan circled each other like lions, rushing forward to attack and then back off, bleeding from their new injuries. Eventually their fighting would become more frantic and unbroken, movements faster as they stabbed and cut, parrying and jerking away from blows. It looked for all the world like some sort of macabre dance, where one misstep could be fatal and was often punished harshly with another cut that added to the multitude of tears on their uniforms already. They were both panting, blood and sweat from the day's battles covering their skins as they fought madly for dominance. As far as Fritz could tell the countries were evenly matched, Ivan having his strength and longer reach while Gilbert was quick and mobile, able to dart away from Ivan's moves an instant before they hit.

Then something happened.

It came without warning, striking like lighting. One moment Gilbert was fine, his steps sure and unbroken, and then the next there was a falter, a mistake. Gilbert's eyes widened and his hand flew to side, a cry of pain being torn from his throat while one of his legs buckled and threatened to collapse. The opening was all the Russian needed and he swooped in, his sword swinging in a perfect arc, past Gilbert's lowered defenses, and cleaving the pale nation open from his shoulder to his hip. Frederick screamed as he watched the horrible sight unfold before him, knowing deep down that it had to be a killing blow, there was just so _much_ blood and—

—_so much blood staining the sand—_

—Gilbert's body reeled back, the sword falling from his hands as he fell limply to the earth—

—_the same way Katte's limp body had lain there—_

—and lay there, still as a corpse while Frederick watched, trembling with his heart pounding itself to pieces. He wanted to scream again but the soldier inside of him quenched that instinct, but it could not make him look away. He had seen Gilbert die before. Killed by bullets and grapeshot and sabers, even a cannonball at one point, but those had all been accidents or the inevitable casualties caused by war. He had never seen the nation deliberately defeated and murdered before and suddenly he felt nauseous, visions of a fortress from decades ago swimming in his mind's eye.

A shout next to him jerked his attention back to the present. "Your Majesty, the Russians are pushing us back!" It was Schenkendorf, having ridden down the line to inform him. "I am not sure how much longer out battalions can handle the assault, Your Majesty!"

"We have to make them!" Frederick replied, pointing to Gilbert's body. "We need to rescue General Beilschmidt, we cannot let him become a prisoner to the enemy!"

Schenkendorf's eyes went wide as he saw where Frederick was pointing. "Is the Field Marshal…?" he said, his face paling.

Russia looked up from the body, turning to them and smiling a little, even waving his fingers at them for good measure. The gesture infuriated Frederick and the monarch reached for his sword before he knew what he was even doing. Russia laughed at this outright and looked back down at Gilbert, nudging his body with his foot. None of the other Russians moved to join him although they stared at him from a distance.

"What in the world is he doing?" Schenkendorf asked, looking a little ill himself. "He already killed the Marshal, why would he…?" he trailed off, looking to Frederick.

Realization dawned on him then and Frederick thought he was going to be sick right then and there. "He's waiting for him to come back to life," he said, panic twisting his insides and making him go cold all over.

He heard gasps nearby and Gilbert jerked all over, his sides heaving as he breathed once more. Russia rolled him over onto his back with his foot and did not give him any time to recover from the shock of waking up. He stomped harshly on Gilbert's throat and held his boot there, grinding it under his heel as he raised his bloody sword.

Gilbert moved so quickly that Frederick barely saw it. His hands came up and gripped Ivan's leg, one on the tip of his boot and the other on his calf, then he twisted as hard he could. Frederick could hear Ivan's cry of pain carry across the battlefield and the great country fell back, his ankle and leg no doubt broken and Gilbert rolled away, coming back to his feet and picking up his fallen sword. He could see Gilbert's uniform soaked in blood but no trace of the wound that had killed him, no fountain of blood or any torn skin. The albino did not have long to recover his wits since Russia was back on his feet within seconds, his leg healing faster than Frederick would have thought possible and swinging again. This time Gilbert met him easily and scored a hit across his thigh, a wound that incapacitated the larger country's movements even further.

"Your Majesty!" he heard behind him and tore his gaze away from the fighting nations to look at the aide that was climbing the Kuhgrund to get to him. "Your Majesty, the left wing has been beaten back! General Seydlitz tried to lead a cavalry charge on the Spitzberg but the enemy artillery was too much for them. Seydlitz was injured in the charge and had to be carried off the field."

Fear stabbed through him, pricking his heart with sharp needlelike teeth and circling it like vultures. That must have been what caused Gilbert to stumble earlier. "Is he dead?" Frederick demanded. Not Seydlitz, he couldn't lose his best cavalry commander now!

"No, Your Majesty," the aide said, watching him slump with relief. "But he is too injured to fight. He could not even rise when he regained consciousness."

"Then send in the Prince of Würtemberg instead! Take the left wing and occupy Kunersdorf, then attack the Grosser-Spitzberg again!"

The aide nodded, looking sick, and moved back down into the Kuhgrund, darting through the bodies and heading back to the left where he came. Frederick watched him go and then tried to find Gilbert again, alarm coursing through him when he finally saw the nation, much farther away than he had been previously. Russia's harsh blows were steadily driving him back, away from the Prussians and deeper into Russian territory, farther away from any sort of help. "No!" Frederick yelled again as if that could stop them.

Another blow that Gilbert failed to block sent him flying and Russia pounced on him, impaling him through the stomach with his sword. A scream came from Gilbert that rose above the battle that made the men pause for the barest second and he arched up as if to rise and as he did Frederick noticed that the blade had actually gone straight through him and pinned him to the earth. Russia's hand grasped his coat and his fist slammed into Gilbert's face. Frederick saw Gilbert's head whip around from the force of it and he fell back limply as Russia let him go. Then the large nation bent down on one knee and took one of Gilbert's arms in his hands, the pose mirroring what Gilbert had done minutes ago, and looked right at Fritz as he did.

Frederick did not need to see the Russian's face to know that he was smiling, it seemed to reach out and physically touch him. He couldn't stop the scream that came from him as Russia twisted Gilbert's arm violently, a cry that was nearly drowned out by Gilbert's own, and then did the same to his other with a ruthless efficiency. Russia was saying something as he stood up, Frederick could see that much, and he began stomping on the pinned body below him. The screams from Gilbert drifted over the field, shrieks of agony that echoed over the soldiers' own as they were beaten back by the Russians even as their country was being tortured under the man's boot. Frederick saw the similarities all too clearly. Watching the sight before him filled him with a profound horror and a growing hatred that was starting to overwhelm everything else inside of him. It burned away his fear and disgust like the impurities out of iron and left him with a clear, undiluted wrath that roared through every fiber of his being. He was angrier than he had ever been in his whole life, more than when his father beat him, more than learning the failures of his brother after Kolin, even more than when he had heard Gilbert yelling at him and throwing all of his mistakes into his face and saying they were his fault.

For once he welcomed the feeling.

He held it tightly inside of him, clutching it close to his heart like a miser to his gold. With his weaknesses gone he pushed forward again, his voice ringing clear and commanding, calling for more soldiers and artillery, forcing them to keep fighting. They had won the Kuhgrund once and they could do it again!

And on they fought, getting ever closer.

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><p>The pain was incredible, he hadn't felt anything like it in centuries. It never let him recover, not even to take a breath or gather his wits before it came upon some other part of his body. Ivan's boot was pulverizing him, snapping his ribs like twigs and rupturing his insides until he was certain he was about to explode into a mess of blood. His arms burned like hot pokers—both the bones in his lower arm had been broken and his elbows as well and every time he tried to move them another wave of pain crashed over him. He tried to twist away from Ivan, cries that he barely heard being torn from his throat as every movement, every twitch brought another bolt of pain crackling over his senses. The action was purely instinctive and he kept telling himself to not move while the sword was inside him but his body refused to obey his wishes.<p>

Above it all he could hear Ivan yelling.

"You stupid, pompous _bastard,_" he shouted at Gilbert, his voice twisted in rage as his blows landed unceasingly into him. "You attack me and dare to think you will overrun my army! How dare you! You kill my people, take my guns and send my men running, and then you think you can actually press forward and win, on the Spitzberg no less!" He laughed, the sound harsh and terrible. "Oh you are arrogant, Gilbert, you and your little King both. I have to teach you both a lesson."

Somehow Ivan's speaking gave him the strength to rally against the pain and he spit at him, reveling at the spot of red that appeared on Ivan's cheek from it. "Fuck you," he snarled, gasping from the pain despite himself. "I kicked your ass at Zorndorf and I'll do it again."

Ivan laughed again and wiped his face. "We were even. I let you have that battle." He gripped his sword and yanked it out of Gilbert, waiting until the cry from his enemy ended before continuing on. "You won only according to the rules of warfare that the army who still holds the field is the victor. I won't be so generous this time."

He tried to scramble to his feet but Ivan kicked him back down, sighing in exasperation. His arms flared up at the movement, still in the process of healing, yet he pushed himself up anyway. Ivan was raising his sword, his eyes filled with some sort of dark anticipation, when a hail of gunfire flew by them and some of the bullets struck his coat. They both whirled in shock to see that the Russians had been pushed back yet again, the tug of war being fought over the Kuhgrund leaning in the Prussians favor one more. Gilbert noticed Fritz right away, the pale horse and straight figure recognizable anywhere, riding the lines and looking right at him. He felt a huge smile break out on his face seeing his king fighting so desperately to reach him and he leaped up again, taking advantage of Ivan's brief distraction to come to his feet. He felt his bones resetting and healing, leaving them good as new and he felt the strength entering him again. If he just ran now he could easily make it—

Ivan cut in front of him, blocking the path forward. Behind his shoulder Gilbert could see Fritz pointing at them, the authority in the gesture clear. Anger flickered in him again and he leaped at Ivan, trying to dart past him but he was held at bay through Ivan's longer reach and quick movements that matched his own. How was Russia healing so damned quickly? He still seemed to be in his top shape while Gilbert's injuries weighed him down and made him slower that he needed to be. The only thing that he seemed to be affected by was the heat, which must have been even worse for an arctic nation like Russia.

The idea came to him just like that and he had to laugh at the simple brilliance of it. Ivan frowned at him in return and Gilbert grinned, showing all of his teeth and the smug glint in his eye. Without any warning he tried to slip past Ivan again and before the Russian's sword could catch him he skidded and ran to his other side, making it seem like the whole movement was a feint. It almost worked and he was certain that if he had been a fraction of a second faster he could have ducked under Ivan's hand and been on his way, except that had not been his original intention. He bounced back on the balls of his feet, keeping his weight light and free as he sprinted along Ivan's sides, avoiding the lunges for him and the sword swinging to block his way. He kept up the dance and had the satisfaction of seeing Ivan start to pant, the exertions taking their toll on his huge frame. "That coat must be awfully thick, Ivan," he said, unable to stop himself from taunting.

Instantly suspicion flared into Ivan's face at hearing his name, especially coming from Gilbert. He clenched his jaw and did not reply, instead barreling forward and trying to slash at the Prussian who scurried out of the blade's way. He had to spin around and make a grab for Gilbert as the smaller man rushed at his side in an attempt to get past him and once again his hand met empty air as Gilbert backed off. It was far too easy, by now Gilbert should have been caught in one of his impetuous rushes or at least have escaped by now. Instead he seemed content with running circles around him, looking for all the world like he was trying to outwit his slower enemy and dash away with his quicker speed the moment Ivan slipped up while not doing anything to actually give substance to his movements. It was annoying in the extreme and Ivan could feel his body heating up through all the thick layers of his clothes and his knew that it had nothing to do with his anger.

Gilbert laughed again when he saw his expression, knowing he had been found out. "I bet it doesn't get this warm in your country," he said maliciously, running forward and leaping back again. "It must be so hot for you, blistering, I'd say. Especially with that coat and that ridiculous scarf you're wearing, it just keeps everything in. How long do you think you can keep this up before you fall and I'll be free to go?"

He couldn't think straight, only react to things that were happening around him. Every turn he made seemed to swing the world around him and when he changed direction it jerked like a maddened beast. His head was spinning, waves of dizziness and exhaustion crashing through him even as he felt more musket balls doing the same. Gilbert weaved back and forth in his vision, going one way then another, laughing at him like a gleeful and wicked child to spur him on further. He couldn't take it much longer, he had to grab him and make him stop or do something else that would give him pause to orient himself again.

At last it was the moment Gilbert was waiting for, he was too slow in his movement or wasn't aiming right, he never knew, but suddenly he moved and Ivan's fist was left grasping at the air where the hem of the Prussian's red cloak had been a millisecond earlier. He was not so sluggish that he had no idea of what was happening, though, and turned to grab Gilbert with a lunge. Gilbert must have predicted it because he was already leaping out of the way, once again escaping from his grasp by inches and running towards the fighting. Ivan snarled and raced after him, only a few steps behind. They were closing in on the men, where the lines met and in and in a few seconds they would barrel right into them and that would be it. Ivan had used the shock of his appearance to capture Gilbert the first time and he knew that it would not work again.

Gilbert did as well. He forced his battered body to go faster, stretch his legs farther, the Kuhgrund so tantalizingly close. He would be with his soldiers and Fritz again and Ivan wouldn't be able to break through them a second time. With a short laugh he looked up, seeing Fritz in front of him, and put on a final burst of energy.

The ground in front of him exploded in a geyser of dirt and heat and again he heard the scream of a horse, except this time his saw clearly as Frederick's horse staggered from pain and fell, Fritz falling with it. "No!" he gasped, seeing Fritz disappearing among the throng of bodies. They cleared a second later, showing the dead horse lying on its side, but no sign of Frederick. "Fritz!" he howled, eyes frantically searching the ground for a body, a movement,_anything._

He hadn't realized that he had stopped, frozen in place by shock and horror. He had completely forgotten that he had been running from Ivan, so when his head exploded in pain and his vision flashed a bright red before fading into the deepest black, he died the most astonished man in the world.

* * *

><p>He hit the ground with enough force to drive the breath from his body and to send spots exploding across his eyes, almost knocking him out. He even bounced a little, skidding to the edge of the Kuhgrund and he was certain that he would have fallen in if it hadn't been for his hands clawing instinctively at the dirt and his adjutants who grabbed him just before he could go over. His ears were ringing after being thrown like that, rapidly clearing to hear the words being shouted into his ear.<p>

"Your Majesty, are you hurt?" the adjutant was yelling, gripping his arms so tightly that he felt they would bruise him. The man was trying to look him over as carefully as he could while at the same time maintaining a degree of respect around him.

Frederick shoved him away, shaking his head once to clear it. "I'm fine!" he snapped at the coddling, ignoring how his head was swimming. He didn't feel any pain anywhere, just the dizziness in his head and he knew that would clear quickly. He had worse injuries from falling off his horse in Potsdam. "It is just a fall, nothing more." Ignoring the hurt look from his adjutant, he scanned the area and saw nothing but masses of bodies and his dead horse. Too thick to see the Russians. "What happened to General Beilschmidt? Did he make it over?"

The adjutants and aides glanced at each other. "W-we didn't see him, Your Majesty," Gaudi said. "When you fell we all came after you."

They quailed under his glare. "Well where is he now?" he asked sharply.

"We don't know, Your Majesty."

He resisted the urge to groan and slap his hand to his face. Useless, every single one of them! "Another horse," he said, beckoning to them. Already someone was leading another forward and handing it off to him. He nodded and gripped the reins in one hand while putting his foot through the stirrup. He was halfway through mounting when a hail of bullets whizzed past them and he gasped as he felt something hit his chest with a loud ping. The others cried out as well, most of the bullets finding a mark in some shape or another, and he felt his horse shudder under him. With a pang of alarm he felt the beast falling over and tried to jump back out of the saddle, cursing when his foot got caught in the stirrup. Two of his adjutants caught him and yanked him out as his horse fell down, narrowly saving him from being crushed under it as well. Blood spurted out of the poor thing's neck in waves and he realized that a ball must have gone through an artery for it to be spewing out the way it did.

He put his hand to his chest and felt around, his fingers finding a hole where a bullet had ripped though his coat. Of course everyone noticed the motion and screamed at him, panic at the idea of their king being shot and maybe even dying making them lose their heads completely. Frederick silenced them with a shout and unbuttoned his coat a little to feel around inside. He did not feel any pain or warmth to indicate he was bleeding, but he knew he had felt something hit him, so what was it?

Something warm and smooth brushed against his fingers and he pulled it out to see his snuffbox, still decorated with all of its gems and cold. But now one of the gems was cracked and a slightly flattened musket ball rattled off of the top of the box which he caught before it could hit the ground. Good lord, if his snuffbox had not been there then the ball would have gone right into his heart… Gilbert's earlier warnings came back as if to mock him, the words circling his brain and he could practically see Gilbert in front of him, giving him that smug "I-told-you-so" look that he so loved to throw at his king.

Everyone stared at the box in horror, the enormity of what had almost occurred striking them to the core. "Your Majesty, you should not be out here," one of them babbled. "To expose yourself out here, your life far beyond value—"

"That is enough," Frederick cut him off and slipped the snuffbox back into his pocket along with the musket ball. It would be a nice souvenir. "We must all try every method possible to win this battle and I, like every other man, must stand my duty here!" The next horse that he was given was thankfully free of any injuries or mishaps as he mounted, and he rode to the top of the Kuhgrund again, ignoring their protests.

He whipped his head around, scanning the field and bodies frantically, looking for a glimpse of white hair or a swirl of a red cape, but there was nothing. Fear gripped him. There was no huge figure towering over the Russians, no Field Marshal uniform, no distinctive pale scarf. No, that couldn't be right! Where had Gilbert gone? Frederick could not have looked away for_that_ long, there had to be some hint of them!

But there was not. Try as he might, Frederick could not find a single trace of the nations anywhere in the field no matter how hard he looked. It was as if the two of them had vanished into thin air.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Kunersdorf is quite an interesting battle because even through all the destruction that was being caused Frederick escaped relatively unharmed. The snuffbox incident is entirely true and Frederick himself mentioned in a letter that he had two horses shot out from under him (Scipio is just fine, he was just wounded and ran off) and that his coat was riddled with bullet holes later. It's quite amazing considering that Fritz always liked to be where the fighting was the fiercest. It's also true that he had no significant injuries involving horses either, the worst mishap mentioned was in fact in Potsdam when he was riding a new horse back to the palace after visit his mother and he fell off and ended up cracking his head. He was just fine and blamed no one but himself for it XD**

**Part 3 is nothing but pure, undiluted Prussia getting beaten within every inch of his life by our favorite Russian, so I suppose I'll warn you of that now. You guys think I like putting Prussia in pain and torturing him?**

**You have seen **_**nothing **_**of what I'm truly capable of. Poor baby is in for quite a hard ride I'm afraid~**

**And good lord after rereading some of this stuff I had to cringe a little. Since I have spent all nighters writing this story I've found parts that were obviously written in a sleepless haze at 4 am or something so guys always reread your work before submitting it anywhere xD It also explains any mistakes in the story**


	23. Hell pt 3

**And this, my dearies, is where the storm breaks.**

**I suppose I'll warn you beforehand that this whole part is very bloody so if you're not into that kinda stuff then don't read.**

* * *

><p>When he awoke he noticed that everything had seemed to have gotten quieter. The roar of the men was a distant echo and the ever-present noise of the cannons firing at each other was somehow muted, something that puzzled him greatly. What in the world happened? He should be waking up to screams in his ear and death all around him, but as far as he could tell this place seemed more or less peaceful.<p>

Memory came back to him then, of his last moments before dying, seeing Fritz shot from his horse and then Russia—his eyes snapped open and he bolted upright, crying out involuntarily as his injuries flared to life and almost falling back down on the floor. Wait, the floor? Blinking, he saw that yes he was in fact inside a house of some sort. It was shabby and dirty, no doubt some poor peasant's abode, with poorly constructed wooden walls that rattled with each boom of the distant artillery. It took him a moment to realize that he was not alone and that he was being stared at. He knew that feeling anywhere and turned his head to see Ivan sitting at what looked to be the only table in the house, and in the only chair. Two more chairs were on the floor, one hacked to bits and the other missing its legs.

"Hello, _Prussiyah," _Ivan said with a pleasant smile, twisting his accent around Prussia's name. He took a sip out of something from his flask. "I trust you slept well."

Gilbert snarled at him a little, noticing that the larger nation had removed his huge jacket and was now lounging around in his waistcoat that was drenched in blood or sweat. It was hard to tell due to the red color. "Where's Fritz?" he demanded, the name slipping out of him before he could correct himself.

"Hm?" Ivan replied with raised eyebrows and a tilt of his head.

"My King, you asshole," Gilbert snapped and pushed himself into a sitting position at last. "I saw his horse shot out from under him. What happened to him?"

"Ah!" Russia said, breaking into a wider smile and clapping his hands together. "Fritz, what an adorable little nickname! Oh Gilbert you are too much, does he know you call him that?"

His vision pulsed red again, seething from Ivan's tone. "You saw it! Tell me, dammit!"

The Russian's lips curled slightly, morphing his delighted smile into one of patient amusement. "Yes, I did see it. I saw the whole thing." He sipped his flask again, savoring the liquid slowly.

Gilbert lurched to his feet, swaying but catching himself on one of the beams that supporting the house. "Do not toy with me, you son of a bitch! He's alive, isn't he! If he died you would have told me just to see my reaction." He smirked to himself even though a wave of pain wracked his body. The left wing was still trying to take the Spitzberg.

Ivan smacked his lips and nodded, swishing his flask loudly. "Oh yes, I would have. At the same time I might not. Maybe I find it more amusing in not telling you and watching you get worked up over it. After all his horse was shot and he did fall very close to the lines; why any of my soldiers might have forced their way through and ended his life with a single bayonet thrust! Or maybe the fall killed him, such things rarely happen without injury." Malice glittered in those violet eyes, burning even brighter by a shadow that seemed to have fallen across the Russian's features. The room seemed very cold all of a sudden.

Dread ripped through his entire body, his heart pounding against his ribs in fear as he listened to Ivan go on and on. No, he was lying, he had to be lying. Fritz couldn't possibly be dead, he had lived through worse, he had been in so many battles and always in the thickest fighting. Gilbert could count on his hands the amount of times he had seen his king injured, it was impossible for him to die now! _He's not dead, _he thought, clinging to his fragile hopes like a condemned man. _He can't be dead, I would have _felt _him die. _Fritz was his king and his lover, he would have known if such an important man in his country died, right? _Or maybe he died while I was dead and I couldn't feel it. _He almost physically shook himself from that thought. No! He wouldn't allow himself to think that, not if he wanted to keep his sanity.

All the while Russia watched him, unblinking and taking in every one of the emotions that flickered across his face as if they were a fine wine. "Well, well," he murmured in amazement as he set down his flask, "if I had known I would get this sort of reaction out of you then I would have told you about your king much sooner!" He chuckled a predatory chuckle and shook his head.

Gilbert resisted the urge to punch that stupid smile off his face and tried to maintain control. "What the hell do you have to gain by it, anyway?" he said. "All of this screwing around won't get you anything."

"True, it is just a personal satisfaction," Ivan said mildly. "Maybe I just like watching your face as you try, oh so desperately, to reason with yourself. Is he dead or is he alive? You don't know and you cannot know, but I might. But perhaps I do not know at all. Maybe I killed you then carried you off instantly without waiting to see what became of your precious _Fritz." _The way he caressed Fritz's name with his lips made the world vanish for a moment as Gilbert's rage peaked into an all-consuming fury and the only thing that stopped the albino nation from leaping at him was his voice rising. "Perhaps your reactions amuse me! Maybe it's the noise of your gloves creaking as you clench them so tightly, trying so hard not to kill me, oh I do love that sound actually. It's better than any symphony in the world."

A screech filled the house as Gilbert finally snapped, charging forward like a dog breaking free of its tether and slamming into Ivan, catching him totally off guard. The two of them were sent crashing to the ground, breaking the table and chair under Ivan's weight, while it was Gilbert who held Ivan by his scarf and punched his face mercilessly, blind in his anger. All he was aware of was the red, the bright red that splashed from Ivan's face, his mouth, and nose and the feeling of bones breaking under his fists. It just spurred him on further, hitting on and on while a mindless mantra repeated in his head. _I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—_as endless as a dog barking and spat out as if they were mouthfuls of blood. He didn't stop even when Ivan went still under his hands, the storm inside of him still raging, numbing him until he could hardly feel anything at all, just the anger and sensation of his fists pounding flesh.

He was panting when he finally started to slow down, his muscles trembling as they lost their steam and went limp. The heat was driving him crazy but at the same time it felt so damn good to finally shut Ivan up, to smash those words back down his throat and make him choke on them. He had to rest his weight on his hands so he wouldn't collapse on top of Ivan, shaking from his exertions while the terrible rage left him, clearing his mind and letting him think straight. Now that he had gotten that out of his system he needed to get the hell out of here and find Fritz. He reached for his sword and jumped in panic when he realized it wasn't in its sheath. Had he lost it when he died in the Kuhgrund? Oh heaven he hoped not, how would he find it there?

Gilbert pushed himself to his feet wearily, stumbling back as he forced himself to stand. Blood still dripped from his wounds, the deaths counting up as the Prussians threw themselves at their enemy and their doom. It was becoming hard to walk now, every movement sending bolts of pain throughout his chest. He looked around the room quickly, trying to find his sword in case Russia had picked it up and brought it with him. It would be just like the northern nation to bring it along them torment him further by holding it but not letting him get it back. It did not seem to be anywhere, but maybe it was just in another room—

A wet cough startled him out of his search and he jerked around to see Ivan getting to his feet, blood still dripping from his face but the bones had already reset and the swelling had disappeared. As the nation rose Gilbert noticed just how huge he really was, his frame seemed to eat the space around him until he looked to be the only thing in the room, his massive size dwarfing everything in comparison. Gilbert turned to run, he needed to get back to Fritz not waste his time with Ivan, but he barely felt like he moved before there were enormous footsteps that all but shook the whole house and a pair of hands that grabbed him and lifted him in the air with no noticeable effort. Then he was flying across the room, arms flailing in some absurd attempt to stop himself, and hitting the wall so hard that he felt it splintering under him and collapsing. His momentum sent him rolling through the wreckage and back onto the grass outside where he lay there, whimpering in pain and having to fight just to breathe properly.

Slow, deliberate footsteps picked their way through the ruins and he felt his body starting to shake and he hated himself for it. He wanted to raise his head and spit defiance at his attacker but he didn't have the strength to do even that, he could barely twitch a finger and forcing his lungs to breathe was taking up all of his concentration. A hand hauled him up by the back of his uniform, holding him up while his trembling legs tried to make him stand, while another grabbed his chin and forced him to look up. "Well Gilbert," Ivan said sweetly, his smile wide and showing off his bloodstained teeth, "I will admit you surprised me with that move. I'm glad the fight hasn't left you yet."

He barely had time to register the words before Ivan kneed him solidly in the chest and his vision shattered, swimming in bright, distorted colors before his eyes. It hurt so much that he couldn't even scream and just gasped weakly, curling in on himself from the impact. He felt like he had just been hit with a battering ram and his legs crumpled under him; if Ivan had not been holding him then he would have simply fallen to the ground and laid there in a heap, but he did not and Gilbert was partially aware of the sensation of being dragged along the ground by the fistful of his uniform that Ivan held. He tried to fight it and only succeeded in rolling onto his side and the pain from that almost made him pass out. Green and blue blurs tumbled in his vision, shot through with gray and something else that would flit by too quickly for him to fully register as he was dragged on like a piece of meat. He forced air into his lungs and had to remember how to speak. "Where are we going?" he wheezed out, pain and a tongue made of cotton slurring the words so badly that he could hardly understand them himself.

Ivan seemed to have no problem, though. "To the quaint little hill you call the Grosser-Spitzberg," he replied, raising his voice as the sound of cannons drew nearer. "I would have had you in Kunersdorf but it seems your men have overrun it for the moment, so I had to take you to a little peasant's hut near the base of the hill."

At first he did not make any sense to Gilbert, but when the full meaning of his statement penetrated the kingdom's muddle brain he gave a twitch and a gasp. He healed enough that his sight was stabilizing and it did not hurt near as much to move. "Why?" Gilbert said, trying to stand and finding his legs uncooperative. "The Kuhgrund—"

"You are not needed in the Kuhgrund," Ivan cut him off, frost coloring his tone. "You and your King work far too well when you are together. _Divide et vincere._ He will fall without you at his side and I will break you and your army in my hands like dead pine needles."

So Fritz was alive! There was no way Ivan would talk like that if he had actually been dead, he wouldn't even be carrying out this plan now. Relief flooded through him and he felt his entire body go limp from it, no doubt that made Ivan curious but he didn't care. Fritz was alive oh thank all the gods he was _alive, _Fortune had not deserted her favorite son. He could feel his lips nearly splitting from the smile on his face and his wounds were dulled for a few blessed seconds as he basked in the joy of knowing that Fritz was alright and safe and that Ivan was nowhere near him. Then it was all broken by Ivan lifting him up and shaking him until he felt his brain and eyeballs bouncing around in his skull and he nearly bit his tongue off. Blood filled his mouth and he gagged on it, spitting it out in a thick glob that spattered across Ivan's boots.

Harsh hands gripped his shoulders and forced him to stand as they turned him to face the battle before them. "Look at it, Gilbert," Ivan whispered in his ear gently, almost lovingly, "isn't it beautiful?"

Disgust made his stomach lurch and sharpened his vision and Gilbert cried out at the sight in front of him, the shock of it so great that he forgot the pride of holding in his reactions in front of Ivan. The Russians were all around them, their cannons firing into the lines that tried to charge them again and again, cutting them down before they got close enough to even entertain a hope of running them over. Prussian lines. The slopes of the hill were covered in dead and dying horses, their screams mingling with the broken wails of their riders as the last of their blood soaked into the earth under the harsh sunlight. His cavalry, his beautiful Prussian cavalry that was famed across all of Europe! _Seydlitz was in the first charge, did he—_even as he watched the lines of horse formed up again, this time filled with the Schorlemmer Dragoons, he would recognize those yellow and blue uniforms anywhere. But they were trying to come from behind the hill! The Russians had already noticed their movements in advance from their superior height and had turned their guns to meet them. _No!_

He opened his mouth and stopped, pleas springing to his lips before he clamped down on them fiercely. He would never beg Ivan, he would rather bite through his tongue before doing so. All he could do was watch as the dragoons charged up the hill, surely knowing of what had to await them, and scream with them as they were massacred before his very eyes. "Ivan stop!" he shouted, the beginning of a plea, and bit his lip hard. It was all he could do not to cry out again as his side ripped open further and a hot gush of blood poured down his side.

"Stop?" Ivan repeated as if he had no idea what the word meant. "Why would I stop? It is glorious! The mighty Prussians, finally bested in battle!" He laughed loudly and spun Gilbert around again so they could look at each other. "This is a great day for us! The King of Prussia felled and the whole world shakes with the tremors of his fall! It will be sung about from Paris to Moscow!" There was a deranged look in his eyes that made Gilbert shudder under it. "I don't want them just defeated, though. I want to see them _run." _

Gilbert still managed a sarcastic snort. "They will do it soon enough. Anyone can see that."

"But I want them to do it now," Ivan said, his voice almost a whine. "That's why I brought you here in the first place!" He patted Gilbert's cheek, jerking away from the bite that was aimed at him as he did. "I don't need to defeat you in the Kuhgrund to demoralize your troops, your King's defeat is perfect for that. Here though, is a different story." Then he let go of him.

He almost fell after losing those supporting hands, but his legs managed to hold his weight up despite how much they shook. Seconds later Gilbert wished he had left himself fall as two enormous hands slapped him on either side of his head. It felt like two planets had collided with each other with him caught in the middle, cracking open a well of pain inside of his skull that hungrily devoured everything in its path and left him rigid with the shock of it. Bruises instantly bloomed across his skin from the deepest depths of his flesh, an angry and deep red that promised more pain to come even though this was without a doubt the worst agony he had ever felt in his entire life. His first instinct was to breathe and he instantly failed at that, his broken face causing him to choke on his own blood and spit it out from between his split lips.

His legs failed him finally, crumpling under the strain and making him fall to his hands that managed to catch him somehow. His vision flared a bright, hot white and he was not aware of the broken noises he was making as his hands clutched the dirt, unaware of the world around him and the figure that stood above him watching pitilessly. It felt like his skull had been cracked in a hundred places and all the blood in his body had rushed to his crown and tried to force its way angrily through the bone. A minute passed by before he became aware of a voice calling him in a singsong tone, the sweetly deceptive tone saying his name over and over. He knew that voice and that voice meant only more pain to come, and he gasped in response and tried to scoot away.

"Ah, there you are," Ivan's voice came out of the whiteness, "nice to have you back, _Prussiyah." _There were hands on him again, picking up his limp body as if he was a rag doll and somewhere inside he managed to find the strength to try and struggle, which only resulted in a full body shudder and some of his limbs twitching. A single punch shattered his left ribcage and sent him sprawling down the hill, screaming all the way until he hit a body and came to a halt. Nausea crept up his throat and threatened to explode and he swallowed it down with only the greatest difficulty, gasping once his throat was clear. Those hot puffs of air against his lungs, scented with death and heated metal, was absolutely sublime and he could have relished it forever if a boot had not kicked him over. He gasped at the light invading his eyes and twitched his arms feebly to try and raise them, but nothing happened. Ivan's silhouette in front of him moved forward and blocked out the light for him, though it still reflected off of the blade of the Russian's sword.

Ivan turned the blade a little, contemplating it, before placing his foot on Gilbert's chest and pressing hard. The Prussian's shrieks echoed across the entire hill and the woods beyond, causing many of the men to pause for the briefest of moments as the sound chilled them in a way that the screams of the dying could not. His ribs all came to life in a single touch that flared hotter and hotter along his side until it felt like knives were ripping through his skin, then abruptly the touch backed off so he would not pass out from it. Gilbert's breaths still came in weak cries that puffed against the grass, unable to help himself and quite unaware that he was making the noises in the first place. Ivan stared at him, his face blank except for the slightest curl of his lips, and moved forward to stomp on him again. "Nice and loud, Gilbert," he said, "remember that everyone has to hear it."

Before Gilbert could wonder what he meant by that the sword came down upon him, cutting deeply into his side. He thrashed away and clawed at the earth, oblivious as to how his screams reflected amongst his men, how they faltered as their nation suffered and they never even knew who he was. The Russians swarmed over them, their cannons obliterating them and their soldiers sweeping them back like a green tidal wave. The world around him disappeared and was only measured in leaps and bounds of pain, the pain of his men dying and the pain of Ivan's torture pulling him in two different directions like horses trying to quarter him. His vision bubbled and burst around him into watery colors that scrambled up inside of his head and for a second he could taste his pain, an agony of pepper that seared his tongue while the sounds of the swirling colors was like a thousand trumpets inside of his mind, and then it was gone and he was back on the ground. Blood tasted like blood and the colors no longer sang.

"That was very good, Gilbert," Ivan was saying, his voice coming from far away it seemed. "You should see the way your men run now! All we need now is to let the cavalry finish them off and you and I will be quite done here."

"Ivan!" a voice yelled, so well-known by Gilbert, its usual coldness warped by utter horror and revulsion. "What are you _doing?!"_

Oh gods not him, anything but him. Please let that voice just be some hallucination his mind was creating in its delirium. He rolled his head over to look and yep, there he was. Roderich in all of his perfect, pristine glory, standing only a few feet away with his face nearly as pale as his uniform, eyes bulging at the two of them. A part of him noticed with a small spark of fury that Austria's uniform was practically spotless, only a few splashes of red showing up on his boots which no doubt happened only recently when he had walked across the field of corpses to get to them. The lazy bastard had not even been in the battle! He rolled his head back over and closed his eyes. He couldn't take this, he could be beaten by Ivan but to have Rod sitting here and watching it happen was unbearable. Could he just die now and get it over with?

"I am defeating Prussia and his army, Roderich," Ivan replied calmly, standing up straighter to face his ally. "That is what we are here to do, _da?" _

"Torturing him and defeating his army are two completely different things!" Roderich sputtered, the cold façade that he tried so very hard to keep up around Gilbert crumbling under his rage. If Gilbert had been in a better state of mind then he would have savored the moment. "This is sick, Ivan! Let him go, we have won, there is no point in keeping him here and making him suffer!"

Won?! The word hit Gilbert like the artillery cannon had earlier and a moan slipped out of his throat without him meaning to. He already knew it deep in his heart, his wounds and pain told him long before Rod did, but hearing them spoken aloud in such an offhanded declaration twisted the injury home. _I want to die, _he thought, shame burning under his skin hotter than any of the sun he had faced that day. _Please just let me die so he can go away. _

Ivan frowned, his eyes hardening. "We have not yet driven the Prussians off," he said as if he were speaking to a stubborn child. "He can go when they have left the field."

Roderich's own anger was just fed by Ivan's cold. "Don't patronize me, you savage! What are you going to do, keep bleeding him until every last Prussian leaves the field and then dump him in the Oder for his army to pick up later? Throw him in a ditch and hope someone recognizes him before his body gets pillaged and he's buried alive? You can't keep him prisoner, you know it, and how long will you keep him as your plaything before you get tired of him and leave him for your Cossacks?!" He was shouting, truly shouting at the top of his lungs and a small part of Gilbert was amazed at the sound that not even he could coax out of the Austrian during his greatest victories.

"You have no authority on this matter!" Ivan snapped back. "Who won this battle today? I did! My men and their lives paid for this victory while you and your precious Loudon sat behind that hill and did nothing but move around and send a few reinforcements here and there. I bought us the victories at Zorndorf and here—what did you do? Go back to your men, Roderich, you can play your final part with your cavalry and pretend you were helping the whole time, it's what you're good at."

He wished that he could have heard Roderich's reply because honestly the man was actually standing up for him and defending him and Gilbert was certain that he was in some sort of pain-induced fever dream because there was no way he could have possibly heard those words correctly. His sworn enemy was yelling at Russia for his treatment? Austria should have been laughing and dancing on the spot right now seeing him so beaten and utterly humiliated, not whatever…this was. However the blackness that was pulling at him was growing stronger and now that Ivan's sword was no longer there to drive it away he welcomed it gratefully and sank back into that deep, permanent darkness that healed all pain and all misery. He hoped that this time he would get a longer rest than before.

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><p>No such luck. The explosion of life that brought him back to his body seemed to come all too soon and he was left cringing from his very first moments of breathing, his ribs still tender and sore. His head did not hurt nearly as much, thankfully, and all of his wounds simply ached, but he ached everywhere. There was not a single part of his body that wasn't afire with some sort of pain or another that all screamed for his attention. He flinched involuntarily and moaned as his wounds were jerked open by the move, blood starting to seep out once more now that there was a heartbeat to make it flow.<p>

It took an amazing amount of effort to force his eyes to open. Light sliced through his lids and drilled two holes into his brain, blinding him in their intensity until the shadow blocked them out again. He shook a little, partially from the pain in his eyes and partially from seeing Ivan yet again. Moving still hurt but Gilbert forced himself to glance around as quickly as he dared, surveying the area. Roderich was gone.

Ivan tapped the point of his sword against a bloodied patch in his uniform, startling a yelp out of the country beneath him. "I'm sorry about that, Gilbert," he said, drawing the sword back up. "A small interruption that won't happen again. I'm so glad you managed a nap in the meantime, it will keep your strength up."

Everything was so hot and dizzying, Ivan's words were a confusing mess until his brain managed to start working enough to understand what he was saying. "They're running," Gilbert murmured, a cough tearing from his throat as he said it. He could feel his men retreating, the wounded being carried off through the woods while those on the field still tried to fight on.

"Not enough," Ivan said with a small laugh. "Some of your men tried to come and stop me, you know. Even when they're beaten they are still noble little fools. I don't like that. I want to see them in flight, too worried about their own lives to try and care for anyone else's." With his boot he pushed aside Gilbert's cloak and jacket, exposing his bloodied waistcoat. He chuckled again, the crazed glint coming back into his eyes as he lifted up his sword, studying it for a few moments before plunging it into Gilbert's chest.

Nothing, absolutely nothing he had felt that day could possibly compare to the feeling of that sword going through his ribs and into his lung. It was a pillar of fire that burnt across his chest and shot to the very tips of his fingers, starving his nerves of every sensation that was not an extreme, agonizing pain. He tried to scream but that caused his lungs to move and send the pain rocketing into a whole new dimension of suffering and he instinctively stopped, his mouth still stretched in a soundless howl. When the sword drew out the fire dwindled down into embers, only to roar to life again when he tried to breathe. It felt like getting stabbed all over again and he could sense something bubbling inside of his lungs before the sword came down again, puncturing only a few inches lower than the first wound. Everything in his body seemed to be failing him, his arms that tried to lash out only jerked feebly, his lungs could not draw air and seemed ready to collapse, even his heartbeat felt different and irregular as if in the throes of death.

As the sword was pulled out again he had to cough, despite the torment that brought him, causing a great spray of blood to burst from his lips and run down his chin. The smaller droplets, however, arced gracefully through the air before gravity pulled them back down to shower his face, cooled by their brief journey. He wanted that moment, that feeling, to last forever and he _cherished_ it. He basked in it for as long as he possibly could, willing his mind to stretch every precious split second into infinity where there was nothing but the peace and the coolness that soothed his burning skin for was long as possible, for he already knew what was going to happen next.

He thought he was prepared for it this time, but the scream that he could not hold back from the third blow told him otherwise. All of his injuries felt like they were on fire and his lung was dying, each and every breath tearing it more and he could feel the blood bubbling inside of his chest, rising with his scream and cutting the noise off abruptly as it got stuck in his throat. He coughed again and painted his chin with another spattering of blood while the world tilted. Russia moved his foot off of Gilbert's chest to take another aim and as Gilbert watched him a sense of anger began kindling in him again. What was he doing here, lying like a rag and letting Ivan do whatever the fuck he wanted to him? When did he ever let anyone beat him like this, and in front of Roderich no less! It was despicable, he was the awesome Prussia and no one ever, _ever_ humiliated him!

Rage gave him strength and he rolled over as quickly as he could, dodging Ivan's blade that sunk deep into the earth, and pushed himself partially up. His side was a white-hot line of agony that he steadily ignored and forced him arms to move, past all of the pain that his body was in. He could not stand up, not yet, and rolled to Ivan's side while supporting himself with his arms. His leg lashed out, perfect and snapping forward like a spring; he couldn't have asked for a better shot. There was a crack as his boot connected with Ivan's leg, just a few inches above the knee, and a yell from the large country. Russia stumbled and then collapsed, curses flying out of his mouth in his native tongue as he held his dislocated knee and tried to shove it back into place.

Gilbert forced himself to stand, almost falling back down as he did because his head couldn't seem to stop spinning. More blood spilled from his mouth, all brought from his ruined lung; it was becoming hard to breathe and not just because of the agony, he had only one lung working properly while the other was punctured and drowning in his own blood. He tried to run anyway, he had to do something to try and get away, but his stumbling feet tripped over a body and sent him sprawling again and turned the edges of his vision gray. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Ivan standing up, still holding his knee, and his hands scraped at the grass as he tried to push himself up again, bumping against something next to him. It was a musket, the bayonet still attached to its muzzle. A bayonet! He grabbed it without thinking and turned around to see the hulking mass that was Russia bearing down on him, his face twisted with rage and his sword held high.

But he was limping. Gilbert noticed it right away even though Ivan was practically standing on top of him and he rushed forward in return, darting to the side that he had injured and gripping the musket tightly in his hands. He swung it back and ducked under Ivan's clumsy swing, then planted his feet firmly and brought the weapon around with the entire force of his body behind it. The bayonet buried itself deep into Ivan's side, all the way up to the barrel of the musket until even that was driven into the Russian's body from the force of Gilbert's frenzied blow. He had angled his shot upwards, stabbing just under the ribcage and forcing the bayonet up and driving it through Ivan's lung, right into his heart. He heard the gasp right next to his ear, equal parts pain and astonishment, and saw Ivan's sword fall from limp fingers. He twisted the bayonet deeper inside and brought his face right up to Russia's, scarlet eyes locking with violet, and grinned as savagely as he could. "_Fuck you," _he spat out, watching the blood from it roll down Ivan's face as his eyes glazed over.

He let Ivan fall, smiling like someone possessed at the sight of it all. He wanted to laugh and stomp that damned face into the earth, except he was about to pass out and black spots were swirling in his vision. No matter how much he coughed and exhaled the blood from his lung it was still being filled with it and it was getting harder to breathe, his pained gasps were doing nothing to help him as if he was not getting any air inside him at all. The world was spinning so much that he did not even realize he was falling until he hit the ground, utterly exhausted and weight settling into his limbs. _No! _he yelled as the blackness came upon him, dragging him down while he kicked and screamed. _Not yet, just a few more minutes!_

The first thing he noticed after he came back to life was that Ivan had moved.

It made him jump into a sitting position right before he started hacking violently, bright red splashing the ground as he cleared out all of the liquid that had collected in his lungs. The wounds were still in his side and they flared with each cough, driving a nail of pain into his skull. He forced himself to stand again, noting with a smug pride that this time he was able to do it without stumbling, and made his way over to Ivan. When he had first fallen he had landed on his face and now he was on his back, his fingers curled around the musket, which had been pulled out by a few inches. Gilbert snarled and shoved the weapon back in, pressing it even deeper inside than before. It was more than just pettiness that drove him to do so, he was buying himself time. When a nation came back to life the only wound that was healed was the one that killed them, but the higher powers that gave them new life and healed them could not magically take away the weapon that had caused it. Ivan would have to remove the bayonet first before he could go anywhere, and how many times would he have to come back to life, try to remove the weapon, and die again while it was still stuck in his chest? Many, many times.

"And I hope it is excruciatingly painful, you motherfucker," Gilbert growled at the dead man, his hands working at Ivan's neck, unwinding the scarf that he always wore. He didn't understand Russia's obsession with it but that did not matter. It was important to him, just like Gilbert's sword was important to his own soul, and he knew the bastard had taken it and hidden it somewhere. His sword for Ivan's scarf, and Ivan wasn't getting it back until he had returned Gilbert's sword.

He finally yanked it free and stuffed it into one of his inner coat pockets, wincing as he looked down and saw the blood that drenched the whole front of his uniform. It looked as if he had fallen face-first into a puddle of the stuff. Glancing back at Ivan he saw the body begin to twitch, hands clenching around the musket again. "No, no," he said, putting his boot against the butt of the gun and shoving it in further. "We are having _none _of that." Ivan's gurgle was the sweetest response he could ever hear and the limpness that followed was like a gift from the heavens. He tried to estimate in his head how much time he had. Of course the times nations spent dead varied with the severity of their wounds but he could still guess, right? He gave up after a few seconds, his brain too muddled to do any sort of math. The point he knew was that unless Ivan got some help he was going to be stuck there for quite a while.

Help…

The stare prickled the back of his neck and he whirled around, his hand going for one of the knives hidden inside his boot. He froze when he saw Austria was the source of the stare rather than some common soldier. Seated upon a horse that was as white as his uniform, Roderich gazed at the two of them coldly, the mask that he had allowed to briefly slip back in its proper place. He seemed more curious than angry and he had the air of some noble who was watching a brawl between two drunken peasants in the distance. Prussia felt his lips curl and he yanked the knife out of his boot. He had just taken down Russia while beaten within every inch of his life, Roderich wouldn't even be a challenge. At least that was what he told himself.

To his infinite surprise, Austria just blinked once at him and nodded. It could have been out of respect or acknowledgement or something else that he could not identify, the coldness made it hard to tell. Then Roderich turned his horse and began trotting back to wherever he came, the beast picking its way delicately over the bodies littering the field. The nation drew his sword as he was riding away, the sunlight glinting brightly off the polished steel.

What in the world was he doing? Gilbert watched him go, confusion rooting him to the spot. Rod should have attacked him, it would have been the right thing to do and Gilbert wouldn't have blamed him for it, but he was just going to nod and run off. That couldn't be right. Austria was a sissy but even he had his limits, he had become more like a soldier and less like the pampered aristocrat Gilbert had fought when Silesia had first been taken. Something was wrong.

He sensed the movement along his skin, knowing that the force was massing behind the Spitzberg from the Judenberg. Loudon's cavalry, finally stirred into action at the sight of the Prussians about to break under the Russians. It would be the final blow to smash the army for good.

Gilbert ran, ignoring his pained and exhausted body, telling himself to move faster, push harder. He needed to get back to the Kuhgrund. He needed to get to his king.

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><p><strong>AN: Tfw when you're two babies just cannot get along at all.**

**If it makes you guys feel any better this was very hard to write for me as well, especially toward the end when I just got tired of putting poor Gil through so much ;w; Except he's now done something that he really shouldn't have with taking Ivan's scarf like that. That's gonna come back real quick.**

**Also I pretty much had to fit that reference to Disgusting in there, it was too perfect.**


	24. Hell pt 4

**One more part after this and then I think we will be done with this prompt and all of it's pain~ I'll miss it but at the same time I've been writing it for so long that it needs to end (as of right now with my current Word format the thing is 41 pages long and 33, 229 words and I still need to finish writing.)**

**I've broken Gilbert already, now it's Frederick's turn.**

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><p>They were being pushed back too far. Losing the land they had fought so hard to gain step by step, the constant blows of the Russians hammering away at the tired soldiers, straining their lines to the breaking point. The left wing had been beaten again and again, Seydlitz and Prince Eugene wounded and General Puttkamer dead. General Platen had tried to lead another attack with the cavalry and dragoons but they met their failure like all of their predecessors. His battalions now were running out of ammunition and losing their nerve, men breaking formation to run back, ignoring the shouted threats of their officers. Everything was unraveling around him as he rode furiously from clump to clump of disorganized soldiers ordering, demanding, begging them to fight. They paid him no heed and only the most devoted listened to him.<p>

"Your Majesty, we should not be staying here," an adjutant said, eyeing the Russians that were edging closer.

Frederick ignored him. He had fought so hard to gain the Kuhgrund and now he was losing it; he knew that regaining it was a hopeless battle yet he still clutched at the idea as it slipped away through his fingers like sand. Ever since he had lost Gilbert the battle had turned against him, everything he tried had been met with failure and the sense of impending doom crept upon them all. The army was no longer one single cohesive unit but a group of frightened, lost men who saw their deaths approaching and fled in the face of it. He never quite realized just how powerful the subtle influence of a country among their ranks could be until that country was gone and their unity had vanished with him. He still tried to prevail and rally them behind their King, forming a tenuous band that fought even as they were driven back up the slopes from whence they came.

What to do, what to do?! He tried to think of anything that could save them and rescue them from the disaster that they were in and his mind came up blank for once in his life. All that he had done had failed and what else could he do next? The hammer blows of his repeated attacks had broken through the walls of his enemies, only to face him against another wall, and another until his hammer finally shattered and betrayed him. The only conceivable option seemed to be to fall back and let Moller cover their retreat with his cannons. To retreat! The thought alone left a horrid taste in his mouth. Prussians did not retreat from a battle!

Except they already had, hadn't they? Hochkirch and Kolin, and even further back than those was Mollwitz. Shame burned in his heart at the memory of it, the humiliation of learning that he had fled the battle only to have them turn and win hours later still with him to this day. After that day he had sworn that he would never desert his army again and he was not about to do so now. But the destruction around him, the chaos that was spreading through the ranks like wildfire, raging into an inferno as it pounced upon the dry tinder that was formed out of fear and doubt, was causing the entire structure of command to fall apart. He was a king sitting on a throne of cards that was about to crumble beneath him.

No doubt his aides and generals thought he was insane, still ordering the men to fight and charging around the battlefield, practically everywhere at once with his voice ringing out. What else was he to do though? Order a retreat, just like at Kolin and have his army slink off again, beaten from another battlefield where they had always been masters? His eyes flitted over the scene before him, his wonderful Prussians being driven back, and felt the coldness of finality crystallize in his veins. Yes, he would have to do exactly that. He knew it as surely as he knew his own heartbeat, but he would not do it yet, not while the fire inside of him still burned.

Then he saw it as he looked out among the sea of green, blue, and red uniforms, appearing like a bolt of lightning. A splash of unusual, shocking white. Impossible snowfall in the scorching August heat. The other details came to him all at once, the flare of the red cape, the field marshal uniform, the ease that the figure moved with, his blade flashing as he plowed through the Russians and effortlessly cut them down like the embodiment of Mars himself. "_Gilbert!" _he screamed, feeling as if his heart would stop out of the sheer joy of seeing his nation again. Instead it gave a leap in his chest that sent warmth rushing throughout his body and thawing the ice that had settled in there only minutes before. The warmth quickly turned to fire. "Help the general!" he yelled at the soldiers around him, pointing to Gilbert with his sword.

Heads turned, then shouts of dismay rose as the men's eyes followed his sword and locked onto the lone figure among a sea of Russians, one of their own against the world. The effect was immediate, the men rushing back up in a burst of renewed energy and throwing the Russians back to the latter's total shock. Just the sight of their nation was enough to inspire them to fight again! Did they even know it or question their sudden renewed resolve or was it just so deeply ingrained inside of them that it was instinct? Fritz knew he felt it, he almost wanted to charge into them himself, or that might have been the fact that Gilbert was soaked through with blood. More than he had been when Frederick last saw him. His uniform was torn in multiple places as if he had been attacked by a pack of wolves but he still bulled on straight as ever, stronger than any human despite his weakened state.

The sight filled him with rage and pride, pride at how amazing and unconquerable his nation was and rage at the one who had hurt him so terribly. "Gilbert!" he roared again at the top of his lungs, as if his voice would somehow be enough to bring his lover back to him.

Impossibly, Gilbert heard him. He saw the pale head jerk up and focus on him the moment the name left his lips and his heart gave another leap. There was no way Gilbert could see his smile, but he could see and hear him and that alone spurred the nation on. His movements became almost frantic as he shoved his way through the Russian lines, close to breaking through them and crossing into the Kuhgrund again. The Russians all grabbed him and tried to bayonet and stab him but the same way the Prussians could not stop Russia earlier, Gilbert was unfazed. He was like a force of nature that blasted through mere mortals and ignored all of their petty attempts to subdue him.

Just like something else behind him.

It was their similarity in movements that made Frederick look up to see what was wrong. Men far back in the Russian lines were being shoved and even thrown aside as someone barreled through them, someone huge. Russia did not even seem to care that it was his own men that he was injuring, so single minded was he in his pursuit of Gilbert. Instead of dancing through the lines, ducking between men and slicing them, he merely plowed through them like a draft horse making its way through a herd of ponies and was closing the distance between him and his quarry fast—too fast! "Gilbert, behind you!" he yelled in warning, signaling for the men to move faster. Not again, he would not lose Gilbert a second time!

Prussia paused at the lip of the Kuhgrund and glanced over his shoulder. Frederick never saw his reaction or anything else because at that moment Ivan reached him. The larger nation didn't even bother using the sword he had in his hand and simply leaped at Gilbert, catching him completely open and unguarded. Both of the countries went flying through the air, over the Kuhgrund, then landed harshly in a tangle of limbs and steel, rolling over and over down the slope until they hit the bottom of the hollow. Ivan was the one who ended on top of Gilbert, pinning him down while his sword flashed in the light, burying itself into Gilbert's chest repeatedly. He was yelling something but it was drowned out by Gilbert's screaming that echoed across the valley.

It was a scream mirrored in Frederick's own throat, threatening to overwhelm him. "Stop it!" he said as if, absurdly, they would hear him and listen. _Take your hands off him, how dare you touch him! _his mind screamed in a fury while terror clawed at his ribs. It felt as if he was the one being stabbed instead of Gilbert, every injury sending a similar lance of pain into his own chest.

The Prussians screamed with them, the sight enraging them and giving them a strength that they would have never had otherwise. They ran forward, almost carrying the Russians off their feet as they beat them back into the Kuhgrund, one point in the line forcing themselves in deeper than the rest like an arrowhead, creating a break that the men poured into and pushed wider like water leaking through a dam.

Frederick watched them go in amazement, his jaw dropping. Throwing themselves into the middle of the lines like that! He saw his chance and knew he would never get another. "Forward!" he ordered. This time they obeyed.

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><p>"Give it back! Give it <em>back <em>you bastard, where is it?!" Ivan was screaming as he stabbed, his voice shrill and shaking. He didn't even seem to care that his movements were crazed and he was sometimes missing completely and stabbing into the ground. "I know you have it, Gilbert! Give it back this instant!"

Gilbert flailed under him, pain in his body screaming and alive once more. He had nearly run himself into the ground trying to limp all the way back to the Kuhgrund on foot, using the last dregs of his strength for the final push past the Russian lines. He could hardly answer Ivan, choking once again on his own blood but this time it was both of his lungs and the black spots that were swimming in front of his eyes were growing. He managed to reach out and catch Ivan's wrist as his sword plunged into the earth again, ripping the hand away from the hilt forcefully. A mouthful of blood prevented him from speaking until he coughed it out. "You aren't getting it back until I get my sword," he said with a curl of his lips.

He wasn't even sure how it happened but suddenly his hand was broken and Ivan's fingers were wrapped around his throat and crushing him. "Prussia, I swear by God I will make you wish you never existed if you don't give it back to me. You have seen nothing, _nothing _of what I can do. I will make every second of your life, all of them, nothing but torture and pain. You will _beg _me to kill you quickly."

It felt like his windpipe was about to be crushed in half and he clawed frantically at Ivan's hands, trying in vain to somehow pull them free. Through his blurred, darkening vision his eyes found Russia's and held them. Memory crashed upon him and he was no longer lying in a blood-drenched valley in the middle of summer but a frozen lake gripped in winter's claws, no longer a man but a frightened child. He remembered how Ivan's hands, large even back then, strangled him the exact way they were strangling him now as those eyes glared into his soul. Those crazed eyes that were not human, nothing remotely sane in them that blazed in utter fury and he knew then that Ivan meant every word he said. Then again Ivan never made empty threats or promises.

His hands managed to get another one of his knives out and he slashed at Russia's arm in desperation, panic tearing through him when Ivan's didn't so much as flinch. He dug the point in and ripped up, blood pouring out of the laceration but Ivan held firm, even when the knife cut across his face and nearly gave him a second mouth. The grip only tightened and Gilbert felt the bones in his neck cracking, right at their breaking point and hoped he would pass out before that happened.

A miracle happened then. A sword all but materialized out of thin air and buried itself into Ivan's shoulder and there were men all around them, gunfire ringing out and weapons flashing. They dragged Ivan off him, the enraged country whirling upon them and tossing them back like leaves only to have them run right back at him.

The air rushing back into his throat was the most awesome thing he had ever felt and he gulped it gratefully, then coughed again. Even that small amount was not enough for his lungs they rebelled again, unable to give him the air he so desperately needed. He gasped like a fish out of water and tried to sit up, then there were hands on him, pulling him to his feet and supporting him, countless hands. His eyes flew open in shock as he took them in and immediately recognized the sensation that surrounded him. Prussians! Live men, his people, all around him and touching him and so deliciously _alive_. He reached for them mentally the way a drowning man instinctively reaches for anything to help him stay afloat and drew their strength into his body, their closeness giving him an onrush of strength that left him weak at the knees.

"Field Marshal!" they were saying, one of them pushing forward to support him just before he could fall. "Beilschmidt, stand up! We need to retreat back to our lines before the Russians pounce on us."

Gilbert nodded and looked at Ivan as the man spoke, watching as he tried to rise and fight his way through the Prussians who swarmed over him like ants. But there were so many, all of them firing at him and slashing him from all sorts of angles that he could not keep up with. There was a stumble, then, and Ivan fell and the Prussians were upon him like vultures, bayonetting him and cheering at their victory before they turned and fought the way back the way they came. Gilbert let himself be swept along them, laughter bubbling from his chest as his lungs healed, euphoria making him dizzy. He did it, he made it back and he was with his men once more and he wouldn't be parted from them again.

Climbing the hill was exhausting, his legs leaden and chest burning while his wounds healed ever slowly. He almost stumbled at points but the men were always there to help him up and the rush of them falling back into their positions to cover their retreat from the Russian lines did most of his walking for him. But on they pushed and then he was back at the very lip of the Kuhgrund, on his side this time, forcing himself to climb up those last few steps so he could finally get past all of the fighting and rest even though he felt like he was about to collapse again.

Then a gloved hand that he knew all too well reached out and grabbed his own hand in a firm grip and pulled him up. The hand was shaking, he could feel it through the thick leather, and dug into him almost painfully. He looked up at the owner into a pair of worried eyes that stared at him so intensely that he forgot how to breathe. Gods, Frederick's eyes had always been so blue, so bright, and every time he looked into them he felt as if he could just fall right in like an endless sky. They never left him, not even to blink, worry and care and tenderness blending together into such an open display that he felt his heart melting right then and there. Thanks to Fritz's help he could stand again and he offered his monarch a smile, trying to tell him without words that everything was alright.

* * *

><p>Frederick knew that there were others around him and watching but he did not care, he needed to touch Gilbert, to hold him and let his brain know that he really was there. Up close he could see how truly bad Gilbert looked, his torn clothes showing the wounds underneath them clearly and he was covered in blood everywhere, drenched in so much of it that his clothes stuck to his skin. It was all over his face and neck and even as he breathed Frederick noticed little streams of it running out of the corners of his mouth. And his face! What had once been pale and unblemished skin was now marred by a pair of enormous, ugly red-purple bruises that practically covered his entire face and were shaped very distinctly like hands. But he was alive and smiling at him with that soft, loving smile that set off little sparks inside his heart seeing it.<p>

His other hand gripped Prussia's as well, holding it tightly between them. "Are you alright, _mein Liebster?" _he whispered, the endearment slipping out of his mouth without a single thought.

Gilbert's eyes widened a little hearing it, especially with so many people nearby, but then his smile grew. "Yeah," he whispered back, squeezing Frederick's hand with a surprising strength. "I missed you too, _Schatzchen."_

Just like that his fears vanished, swept away like dust by that beautiful smile and reassuring voice that could always calm the storm inside of him and help him find his balance again. Frederick thought his heart was going to burst out of his chest—it seemed to have swelled so much that his body could barely contain it. He squeezed back and relished in the solidarity of the flesh in his hands, so real and yes this really was happening, he really had gotten Gilbert back after all of that suffering.

Gilbert held his gaze for a second longer, then his expression shifted. "Listen to me, Fritz," he said urgently, speaking in his normal tone again. "We have to get out of here. You need to call a retreat, quickly, before it's too late." He shuddered and coughed into his sleeve, causing everyone to gasp as they clearly saw the fresh blood fly from his lips.

The display sent alarm coursing through Fritz and he opened his mouth to reply, but something must have shown on his face because Prussia cut him off before he could. "No! Fritz please, just _please_ listen to me for once, really listen, I'm begging you." Instantly he was silenced. Gilbert rarely begged and never in front of other people. "Loudon is coming, his cavalry is going to attack our left and they can't defend themselves or stop it. Everyone is already running, Fritz! The battle is lost, we just need to go before they kill us all…" A sound that might have been a sob or a gasp escaped him, and when he spoke again his voice was trembling. "Just please, Fritz, I know you hate running and I hate it too but we need to go! We can't fight them, you know we can't, we just have to retreat." He paused, his eyes going wide. "No!" His hand flew to his side and gripped it hard—his left side.

"Your Majesty!" an aide, Gaudy, called out. "The left wing is retreating! The Austrian cavalry is attacking them now!"

Too late, everything was always happening too late. Frederick stared, dumbstruck and trying to grasp for a solution when he felt Gilbert's hand tightening convulsively around his own. He yelped and tried to jerk away, feeling as if his bones were being crushed, but he could not remove his hand from that grip that held him like the jaws of a lion. And then Gilbert _screamed, _the sound going right through Frederick like a cannonball and sending people rushing forward to them. The albino's eyes were wide and unseeing, body trembling before a massive waterfall of blood began pouring out of his side, the wound ripping open all on its own and spilling out its fluids in rivers over Gilbert's fingers and out of his waistcoat. Red bloomed across his side with a frightening speed and then just like that he collapsed, dragging Fritz down with him as he fell.

"Get a surgeon!" Fritz ordered even though he knew the absurdity of the idea. There was no surgeon that would ever reach them in time. Men swarmed around them, yelling and pulling back Gilbert's coat while others helped Frederick pry the hand off him before it could actually break his bones. Someone brought out a knife and cut open Gilbert's shirt and ripped it wide to look at the terrible injury and Frederick was glad that he was not the only one screaming in horror this time. It was something out of a nightmare, a gaping wound that stretched open wide like a mouth, running down Gilbert's entire side with the glistening bones visible in its depths and blood pouring from it like a fountain. He hadn't seen anything remotely similar ever since his fevered hallucinations in Küstrin and it all came back to him in a rush that rocked the world around him.

The men were trying frantically to staunch the flow of blood, hands pressing against the wound and many of them holding whatever scraps of cloth they could. Frederick's own hands were among them without him being aware of it, his mind felt oddly detached from his emotions and it analyzed the scene before him. There was no way they could stop it, he realized, it was flowing far too quickly and its color was too dark, not just regular blood from a wound but his very life's blood. His heart was pounding and he knew he was hyperventilating but he could not stop; he grabbed Gilbert's limp hand again and held it tightly, bringing it up to his face. He noticed that Gilbert's sleeve was also soaked through with blood, the wound appearing even on his arm. "Gilbert!" he said, his voice hoarse and barely louder than a whisper.

But Gilbert was senseless to the world. His eyes rolled, unseeing and glazed with pain, his ears deaf to all the shouts around him. There was a gurgle in his chest that bubbled as he drew another breath, but no scream came. He sighed gently, his chest falling and more blood pouring from his lips from the exhalation. It was a quiet sound, a sudden eye of calmness where the chaos everywhere else centered.

"No," Frederick gasped, trepidation tearing through him at the sight. His eyes locked on Gilbert's face, that white pallor that had seen far too many times in men as he walked across the fields of the dead that battles always left in their wake. Even his lips as lost all their color. "Don't leave me," he pleaded, gripping that cold, limp hand in both of his own as if he could physically keep his love there. "Please don't leave…"

He was ignored. He saw how Gilbert became very still, the kind that only corpses and statues could mimic, and his eyes slid halfway shut, their fires fading away. The blood stopped pouring out of his side, the finality of the action unmistakable among the men. Frederick sobbed and had to look away, knowing that if he stared ay longer he would come completely undone. He could already feel the sensation creeping upon his vulnerable mind, all too familiar after having lived through it once, seeing another lover die in front of him while he was powerless to stop it.

_And it's all your fault, _it whispered to him gleefully, repeating the one phrase that had always haunted him in his cell.

Yes, yes it was. Yet again. After all, had it not been he who ordered to assault to press on despite everyone else's warnings? Had it not been he who outright ignored Gilbert's words, believing in his own infallibility over his nation's centuries of wisdom? His head lowered, staring at his gloves that were now red. Gilbert's blood was on his hands, quite literally, Gilbert's and all the Prussians that were dead or dying, all of it his fault. _My fault my fault my fault my fault my fault—_his vision blurred and split, silent tears spilling down his face. _My fault my fault all my fault it's always my fault they always die because of me—_the wailing in his mind grew, fed by that derisive voice that laughed at his pain and pointed out all of his mistakes. He held on stubbornly although he felt his breath growing even faster, making him dizzy and threatening to make him pass out.

All hell broke loose, then. Swarms of soldiers ran past them, crashing through the cloud of shock that had descended on them and bringing all the realities of the battle back. Frederick leaped to his feet instinctively, staggering and nearly falling before one of his aides steadied his. He shook the hand off roughly and whipped around, gazing over the battlefield in disbelief. The Prussians were in full flight, not like the gradual retreat they had been doing for the past hours but a full blown rout. Men turned and simply fled, running for their lives from the mass of Austrian cavalry that had smashed the flimsy remains of their left wing and then turned its attention to the center, scattering the fighters in the Kuhgrund in all directions. Waves of men poured over the Muhlberg and back to the forest where they came, never once looking back.

"Your Majesty," Schenkendorf's voice said, a hand grasping his arm and squeezing it briefly before drawing it away. "We must get out of here, the battle is lost."

Quiet, forbearing Schekendorf! He had always been the calm one in the midst of such tragedies, always understanding and sympathetic, but forever tacit in expressing those sympathies. Frederick didn't realize how much he needed that until the touch left his arm, grounding him once again in reality before his mind could sweep him off into that abyss where insanity lurked. He drew himself up, trying to gather the shattered pieces of himself back together. It felt like he was encased in ice all over, everything slow and cold and while the pieces fit back in their places, they did so imperfectly. He couldn't survive another blow, he knew. He nodded to the general. "Take your men and get out of here, Schenkendorf," he said, his voice listless to his own ears.

Schenkendorf's eyes widened and he nodded, concern that he dared not express flashing across his eyes as he saluted and turned away. He made a motion to one of the king's aides, the order not even needing to be said. The aide nodded and stepped closer to Frederick along with some of his guard; the king might not have been in his best state of his mind but they would still protect him and look after him at the cost of their own lives. Schenkendorf mounted his horse again, casting one last glance at Gilbert's body before he rode away with his aide to try and find the scattered pieces of his regiment.

Frederick turned back to Gilbert, noting with some relief that someone had closed his eyes for him. "Get a stretcher and take General Beilschmidt to the doctors," he ordered, some of the iron coming back into his tone. He looked up with ice frosting his eyes. "Take him to his doctor, Doctor Zahner. He will have his own quarters apart from the others. If I find out that you have given him to anyone other than Zahner I will have you hanged, is that clear?"

The calm, matter-of-fact delivery sent alarm rippling through their ranks and they nodded dumbly. A couple of adjutants had already managed to acquire a litter and they set it down so the others could help lift Gilbert's body into it. Frederick watched them impassively, numb all over while the faint strains of _my fault _still swirled on the horizon of his mind like storm clouds. He waited, watching for the moment when Gilbert would come back to life, but it would not come. How many minutes had it been since he died? He never stayed dead for long, so he should wake up soon! Why wasn't he—was he somehow perm—No! Gilbert was Prussia and Prussia was not dead! Defeated but not dead!

_You are completely defeated, though, _the voice whispered to him insidiously. _The army is done with. Without the army Prussia is doomed, so he might be dying right now to skip right to the ending._

_Shut up SHUT UP—_he almost smacked himself, shoving those treacherous thoughts away. He would not think that, he had to go on hoping, it was the only thing he had. "Take him," he said once Gilbert was safely in the litter and watched the men leave, trying to run as fast as they could without dropping their cargo. He turned back to the Russians and walked forward, coming to the very top of the Muhlberg.

Instantly he was surrounded by bullets and cannonade, whizzing by him and barely missing him. Dirt and grass stung his face as cannonballs struck the earth around him and he did not even flinch, gripping his sword tightly and shoving it into the ground next to him. The Russians were pushing on victoriously, their cries echoing for miles while the dreaded Cossacks were sweeping across the field, plundering and ruthlessly cutting down any stragglers unfortunate enough to get in their way. Rage and despair warred with themselves inside of his head, his eyes taking in the horrible sight and burning it into his memory forever. _My fault. _His beautiful army, all in ruins and soon to be destroyed! _All my fault. _

He felt bullets tearing at his coat, ripping holes in it but none actually striking him. A cannonball buried itself into the earth a few feet to his left, filling him with a reckless rage. "Is there not one bastard of a ball that can reach me, then?!" he yelled, starting forward as if to walk straight into the gunfire.

Yells surrounded him and someone pulled him back by the arm. "Your Majesty, please!" Gaudy said, glancing between the approaching Cossacks and his king's hardened eyes. "We must leave soon before they overrun us."

What was the point? Everything was lost anyway. Frederick pulled away from the touch and crossed his arms as if hoping to huddle in on himself, unable to tear his eyes away from the field. So utterly defeated and broken, the most celebrated army in the world. He would have welcomed death at that moment, it was no less than he deserved for running so many of his own men into their doom. _All of it my fault. _

"Does His Majesty intend to hold them off himself?" one of his adjutants asked sarcastically, gesturing to the hill around them. Everyone else has already fled, leaving only the the three of them to be the ones remaining on the Muhlberg.

Normally such a remark would have earned a reprimand but Frederick hardly noticed it now. He glanced around the hill blankly before turning back to the Cossacks circling the base of the hill like wolves closing in on a quarry. They all knew who he was, the King of Prussia was easily recognizable, and they also must have clearly seen that he was quite alone. No one around to defend him. He would be the ultimate prize of the battle. "If that is what it takes," he replied, watching them come closer. Should he even go? He still had time, but to flee a battlefield a second time, and to what? A broken army and a broken state. Numb shock filled him even as he went from one emotion to the next, letting his mind batter itself to pieces while his body remained still.

"At least get back on your horse, Your Majesty!" Gaudy said shrilly, becoming more anxious as the Cossacks grew nearer.

Frederick frowned a little, considering it. Well, what would be the harm in it? He gestured impatiently for the horse to be brought forward and climbed into the saddle, silent and grave. Now he had an even better view and good lord the Cossacks were closing in fast! Everywhere the enemy was striking and running them off and here he stood, against the world. Thunder boomed overhead, real thunder and not that of the cannons, and he looked up in shock to see massive gray clouds rolling in, their bellies flickering with lighting. It was as if nature herself was reflecting the state of the battle, the mighty Prussian defeat being heralded by what looked to be an appalling thunderstorm.

Except then he was not alone. Red flashed in front of him as hussars, Prussian hussars, joined them and circled around his small party protectively. Frederick felt a smile break out on his face at their uniforms, Zieten's hussars! He had kept them in the reserves and he knew they must have been deployed earlier in the battle, but it looked like Zieten had sent some of them back to find him. He recognized the leader of the small band right away, a captain by the name of Prittwitz. "I am lost, Prittwitz," he said to the man, turning back to the approaching Cossacks, the small fire of happiness dying within him.

Prittwitz shook his head vehemently, eyes flashing. "No, Your Majesty!" he yelled and waved his sword and charged, calling a battle cry as he and his hussars charged the approaching Cossacks. The two sides met with a flurry of steel and the crying of horses as they danced around each other, the Cossacks trying to fight their way through and slip around as the hussars held them off. Buying the king time to make his escape.

Frederick watched them impassively, hands limp at the reins. He still did not wish to go anywhere and might have remained there forever if he hadn't been for one of his aides grabbing his horse's bridle and galloping off, forcing him to follow. The move snapped him out of his stupor and by the time they had reached the bottom of the hill and were climbing the Walkberg again he was slapping the hand away and reaching for the reins himself. What in the world was he thinking, standing around like that? Gilbert would never forgive him if he let himself be captured, and he would never forgive himself for it either. Defeated or not he was still his country's king and he had his duties to fulfill!

He took one last look over the battlefield, smoking and in ruins, bodies strewn about like flies with the dark clouds rumbling and closing in overhead. Prittwitz's hussars were holding their ground even as they backed off, since they were not seriously engaging the enemy and only keeping them occupied. Frederick clenched his hands tightly and wheeled around, galloping off into the woods as fast as he dared his horse to go before any other Cossacks could take notice of him, back to the remains of his scattered army.

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><p><strong>AN: Owowow my heart D: It's actually harder for me to write emotionally painful things (particularly with Fritz) than it is physical pain because I have to actually make myself feel somewhat like the characters and put myself in their shoes in order to do it effectively. But at the same time I can't help myself. Sorry to load more Fratte angst onto you guys, it drives the point home very clearly though.**

**One thing I'd like to point out Fritz's usage of "Liebster," which my German friend pointed out to me one time. I said that Fritz calls Gil his Liebling, but Liebling is a bit of a platonic word, it means darling but can refer to children or family or close friends as well, which is why Fritz would use it in more public places. Liebster, another variation of the word, is used _specifically_ by lovers though and if you called someone who wasn't your lover this it would be very strange and awkward. So Fritz has some explaining to do for anyone who heard him say that.**

**Pretty much all of Fritz's dialogue on the Muhlberg, "Is there no bastard ball," "I am lost," and even the sassy!adjutant's question are all real actual quotes that were recorded during the battle and mentioned in my sources and I'm super glad they were.**

**Now onto the final part, where Fritz descends deeper and deeper and his heart breaks with it.**


	25. Hell pt 5

**Apologies for the lateness of this part, I had to type the whole thing up since I finally caught up to my writing and by the time I finished it, it was extremely late. But no more! **

**The final part is here and with it pain~**

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><p>Why his enemies never pursued him past the Muhlberg Frederick would never truly understand. It seemed once they got into the forests the army pursuing them figured that they had been bloodied enough and let them flee. If they had kept up the chase then they might have wiped out the entire army altogether, but Saltikov was too exhausted to push his tired army into a hunt and Loudon refused to send his corps forward without adequate reinforcements from his ally so he was forced to stay behind. The Prussians were allowed to run quite free, bloodied and in a panic, but no worse off.<p>

Of course at the time no one knew this and the men simply ran for their lives thinking that the Austrians might come charging after them any moment from their horses and cut them down. Frederick was among them, catching up to the rearguard after a quarter mile and gasping as he had to avoid the cannons that were left in the middle of the roads. Artillery men abandoning their cannons! The shame of it! They had neither the time nor desire to force the guns through the sandy terrain yet again so they simply left the cannons where they were stuck, all one hundred and sixty of them. Frederick had to slow to a canter as he darted around and between the pieces and the men swarming them, but the moment the roads were clear again he pushed into a gallop once more.

It was like when he had fled his very first battle, so many years ago. This time he was not in near of a state of panic as he had been before, but the same urgency remained that sent him flying past. Some men called out to him as he passed and others, lost adjutants and guards, rejoined him from the masses. He paid them no attention and kept his pace steady, rushing by faceless blurs and moaning clumps of men with hardly a second glance. Regiments mixed and intermingled, infantry was seen with cuirassiers, all of them fleeing and taking refuge with their comrades who they knew they could trust, the only semblance of order that remained among the army.

Frederick moved among them like a ghost, men catching only the briefest glimpse of him before he was gone. Everyone was heading for the bridges that crossed the Oder River, back the way they had come days earlier. He finally started to slow down as he approached the bridge near Göritz, where many of their own men had huddled together like frightened cattle as others crossed over to the west bank. He ignored the calls of his name and crossed with them, listening only to the constant thunder overhead. And sometimes, when the stillness of the air was broken by a sudden gust of wind and the surrounding soldiers were silent, he could hear tortured screams far in the distance, coming from Kunersdorf. From the dying that had been left behind being butchered by their enemies who prowled the remains of the battle, plundering their bodies and then slaughtering them.

_My fault._

He moved without being truly aware that he was doing so, his body working automatically while his mind was frozen. Rittwein, he needed to get to Rittwein. His thoughts were no more complex than that, the rest filled with emotions that tumbled by until they all meshed together, despair and grief and hopelessness weighing down his heart. It was like he had fallen into a pool of water that had at first looked deceptively shallow and he was now drowning in it, unable to swim back to the surface no matter how hard he tried. Something black and large yawned open in his chest and it was swallowing him whole.

The sun was setting as he moved on, past Göritz and heading to Rittwein, he knew he would be safe there. The light had already disappeared behind the trees and the clouds overhead blocked out the rest of it, leaving the party to find their way in the semidarkness by lanterns and riding past tiny fires that some of the soldiers were trying to coax to life when they settled down. Frederick stared on ahead, knowing the village was not that far and that many of the injured would be taken there. He could not banish Gilbert from his thoughts, no matter how hard he tried. The way he had smiled right before the wound struck him, the blood everywhere, so much of it…who knew a body could hold so much? He had not taken off his gloves and he looked down at them, the darkness hiding their color and turning the stains into black patches. Gilbert's blood in his hands, streaming through his fingers as he tried the press the wound closed and pooling in the grass, soaking his boots and breeches as he knelt by his lover's side.

The wounds on him! How could he ever forget them? They came back to him, hazy and disjointed. He remembered the side wound the most vividly, how the ribs glistened in the light like teeth from a grinning mouth and how some of them looked to be broken. But cutting open Gilbert's shirt had revealed other injuries, the slashes in his stomach and waist from a messy butcher, and the stabs wounds in his chest. Frederick remembered seeing it occur right in front of his eyes and a brief flicker of rage burned in his chest, but only a few of them had been frenzied and haphazard. The rest had been in a neat little row, precise and done with care. Care! The word screamed in his mind and he had to close his eyes and fight the rising wave of nausea in him.

Only Russia could have put such care into a hideous act. Frederick used to think that his father was the greatest monster the world had ever unleashed on him but now he could see that he was wrong. Russia was something else entirely, something that was insane and inhuman. His father had a trace of it as well but only from the bouts of extraordinary pain brought on by his gout and may other illnesses—which Frederick could now sympathize with—that inflamed his enormous temper. Russia…Russia _knew _what he was doing, he was no anger-maddened beast, he knew exactly how much pain and suffering he was inflicting but he did not care and he enjoyed it. Frederick had seen that in his eyes and heard it in his tone, he liked hurting things and that formed a stone of terror that sat in his gut and surrounded itself in ice.

What had the nation done to Gilbert? Where had he taken him and what did he do to him? Frederick was not entirely sure that he wanted to know but the question still burned in his mind. He had always been too curious for his own good. He would never ask Gilbert, though, or force him to tell. That would be cruel.

_If he is actually alive, _the voice said gleefully. _If he can still talk. If he isn't crippled for life because of the pain you've caused him._

He drew further inside of himself, wrapping himself inside of his shock and dulled senses. A blanket to hide from the world in. _My fault. _With a start he noticed that they had finally come upon Rittwein, the moans of the wounded heavy in the air as he rode by the filthy huts. Cossacks had already been through the area days before, stealing everything that wasn't nailed down and burning huts and leaving behind a mess of hollowed-out huts where surgeons rushed back and forth and peasants peered at them as they went by. More men staggered into the village in clumps, the unhurt and lightly wounded falling into any open ground they could get and resting there, some starting fires while others fell asleep right away and even more stared off into the distance in the same shell shocked state of blankness that Frederick himself had descended into.

Where to go now? All of the huts were filled, no doubt, and he refused to push anyone out to make room for himself. He stopped his horse by a fallen tree that looked to have been ripped away from its trunk rather than falling naturally. The wood did not look to be rotten, had a cannonball gone through it? No matter, it was not important. He dismounted slowly and had to hold the saddle before he fell; after riding for so long and in the state he was in now standing on his own feet felt strange. He felt too heavy to move, as if his despair had turned into actual weight that tried to drag him to the ground. He heard others dismounting around him and he sat down on the fallen tree, unseeing eyes fixated on the darkness in front of him.

His aides surrounded him, keeping a respectable distance, waiting. He knew they were waiting for orders, for some sort of command or assurance that everything would be fine. An order would mean that he was still with them and thinking and planning out how to make the best of their situation, as he had always done. It felt like he was thinking through honey. Thoughts would come to him and it would be an entire minute before he finally understood them and it would take even longer before he managed to burn away some of the ice inside of him so he could move and talk.

"Find General Fink," he said, his voice surprisingly calm. He felt like a poorly assembled house that rattled in every gust but he did nothing to show it outwardly. "Tell him to expect a message from me soon and that he is to report here. And find General Beilschmidt's location." He had to see Gilbert again. He had to see with his own eyes that he was awake and alive. "Search every hut and every campsite, go back over the bridge if you have to. I want to know where he is." His eyes flicked over to the men assembled, his gaze flat. "Take some others with you. Go as a team if you must."

They saluted him, murmuring their affirmations before turning and mounting again. He watched several of them riding off in different directions while only two men stayed behind, an aide and a guard. There were others standing around farther off but he did not know whether they were just passersby who stopped to stare curiously at the king or if they were other aides who were keeping a bigger distance than usual. He did not care and turned to look at the ground, away from all the suffering around him. The ice inside of him had returned and he shivered with it as it deadened his pain.

Frowning, he took off his gloves and pressed his hand to his face, jumping a little when it touched him. He was not shivering from shock, but cold! His hands were freezing and the feeling travelled all the way into his core, bringing another shudder from him. Only hours earlier he had sat in the full flower of August's heat, under a blazing sun and feeling like he was about to pass out from it, and now he was shivering! The air was still hot around him but it could not warm his chilled frame.

He sighed shakily and put both his hands on top of his cane and rested his chin on them, staring at the ground once more. Even that bit of effort to sound commanding had exhausted him and the hole returned. The void in his chest was growing again and it felt like he was spilling out with it, his emotions and care bleeding out of him and leaving him a shell of his former self. _Everything is my fault. _All of the disasters were his fault alone, he could blame no one but himself. Guilt ate at him like a ravenous beast, the only emotion unaffected by the hole and it happily paraded around his mind, whispering to him every single fault during the battle and showing him the memories of Gilbert dying, Gilbert being beaten, his soldiers screaming as they died in waves while uncaringly he pushed them on. His generals all telling him not to continue the assault, the fact they were all _right _and he had been too arrogant to see it.

And he had paid for his arrogance. He had lost everything, his love, his army, and soon his country would be next. The beast laughed and devoured him down to his very bones and then tried to suck the marrow out as well. He felt the world tilting again, like it had done in the Muhlberg, now that he was no longer running or doing anything to occupy himself his mind had free reign. He felt himself cracking further, those poorly assembled pieces of his sanity rattling like a broken carriage. _All my fault._

And it was in that introspective, disparaging mood that Schenkendorf found him.

Frederick did not notice the man at all at first, his attention turned entirely inward. It was only when he heard the sound of a throat clearing did he jerk himself out of his thoughts and glance to where it came from, moving his head only a fraction. He recognized the figure and the uniform right away, despite that there was only lantern and fire light to see by. He had not ordered for Schenkendorf to come to him, so the General must have sought him out of his own desire. Words could not come to him, not yet, and he turned away. But even that had been enough for Schenkendorf who just stood there, waiting patiently and quietly for his monarch to sort out his thoughts, knowing that Frederick would not forget he was there.

The king was more grateful for that than he could ever express. How refreshing and perfect it was to have someone who never pushed, never prodded and yet understood everything without having it explained to him. Always polite and standing off to the side, but knowing he was not at all being ignored as some other men might and get offended as a result. A silent pillar of support like a Greek column that everyone thought nothing of while not realizing how vital he was.

His mere presence was enough to help calm Frederick somewhat. Just him standing there showed his unwavering loyalty and sympathy which Frederick needed more than anything at the moment. He had to say something to Schenkendorf, just like with his aides, and the calm aura Schenkendorf seemed to project everywhere he went was melting the ice inside of him and driving the beast away. Finally he heaved a sigh and felt like he could talk normally without breaking into a thousand pieces. "I am cold, Schenkendorf," he said, lifting his head. He had no idea why he said that but it was the first thing that came to mind. Perhaps he was reflecting his self-deprecating thoughts since he did not shove them away as well as he thought.

To his infinite surprise, he heard the sound of fabric swishing. Schenkendorf was then at his side and placing a coat around his shoulders carefully, enveloping his smaller frame in it. Warmth flooded across his body wherever it touched and made his breath pause from the sudden relief it brought. He had no idea he had been _that_ cold. He turned to Schenkendorf again, observing the general who seemed entirely unperturbed at giving his coat away like that. "But that is your coat, Schenkendorf," he said with a frown. "Now you're going to be cold."

Schenkendorf shook his head slightly, the movement hardly noticeable. "I am not cold, Your Majesty," he responded, calm as ever.

He wanted to laugh, the insane desire springing out of nowhere and frightening him. Of course Schenkendorf was not cold, no one should be on this torrid night with its still air, but the king was. "You have hot blood, Schenkendorf," he said repressing another shudder. "Mine is frozen." It must have frozen in his veins, refusing to warm him like it should. He was silent for a long moment, staring in front of him as visions of the battle swam in front of his eyes. "Have you seen such a thing, Schenkendorf?" he asked softly without looking at him.

"What, Your Majesty?" Schenkendorf said in return.

"The Prussians were routed." It burned his tongue to say that. Yes, the army had retreated from battle before and some battalions had the dishonor of trying to flee, but the entire army routed!

"It was the left wing that broke and ran first," Schenkendorf replied, allowing scorn to creep into his voice as he did. It was harsh like the crack of the cane the officers used to beat their soldiers with to punish them.

Anger flickered inside of him again, but this time it did not die. The fog surrounding his feelings had lifted and he welcomed the change from the numbness that has seized his entire soul. He turned to pin Schenkendorf with a stare and he saw in the general's face that the coldness in them had returned. "But they are Prussians," he said sternly, his hands tightening around the head of his cane. "Aren't they, Schenkendorf?" His gaze slid down to the space next to him, staring at the bark of the tree as his mind flashed back to his wild ride through the forest. He was speaking again without realizing it. "I have seen wounds in the backs of the soldiers as I rode by. Back wounds!" He shook his head in defeat, wondering if the same wounds would appear on Gilbert's back to reflect it. "Those wounds did not exist in Prussia until today."

Schenkendorf chose wisely not to answer him. He did inch just a small step closer, leaning forward in what must have been the most subtle bow Frederick had ever seen in his life. "Your Majesty should get some rest," he entreated with only the slightest hint of anxiety coloring his tone.

This time Frederick really did laugh, a bitter chuckle escaping his lips. It seemed by letting that out the restraints on the rest of his body gave way and he shuddered from head to toe, nearly shrugging Schenkendorf's coat off. "I am shivering, Schenkendorf! The King of Prussia shivers!" Another mocking laugh, entirely self-aimed, rose from him. He couldn't help but give a self-deprecating smile as he hugged the coat closer around him, cuddling into the warmth. God he must have looked pathetic now. "Have you ever seen me do that?"

"It's very cold, Your Majesty," Schenkendorf replied evasively.

A pretty lie, they both knew it and knew the other did as well, but Frederick felt the gratitude washing over him again. Schenkendorf was as tactful in his words as he was on the battle. If only that tact could have saved them earlier! Despair came crashing back over him at full force and with it memory. "Kunersdorf…" he whispered, letting the word roll off his tongue. A simple village that the fate of a whole country could rest on. Thunder boomed as he said it, as if God himself was calling to the importance of the utterance. "When I heard that name for the first time I was here as a young man." Such a simple visit it had been, too, for the Crown Prince. He had thought nothing of it at the time, a simple village surrounded by hills and marshes that clogged the air with the smell of mud in the summer. "Kunersdorf. That this would be the name of my end?" The place where he would ultimately be crushed and buried, under hills and mud and the sweltering August heat. "Kunersdorf." He repeated the name again, each syllable branding itself into his memory forever, mental scars carved by iron and screams and the ping of a musket ball as it just barely missed going into his beating heart.

Schenkendorf's voice came again, its serious edge pulling his mind away from the abyss that the other man could sense his king was about to fall into. "And where to now, Your Majesty?"

"To hell, Schenkendorf," he said just as seriously, gripping his cane tighter. Where else to go but to their inevitable doom? The thought made him shiver and curl up on himself tightly, trembling all over. "It is warm there, I have to defrost." Another shudder and he pulled the coat over him tighter to hide in the warmth it provided. "I am unable to move any limb." He feared that he would be unable to stand, unable to move properly in his coldness. He had only felt this frozen once before, in an actual snowstorm in the dead middle of winter, but that had been another time and place.

He heard Schenkendorf hiss something and saw one of the aides come forward. The general's voice was too low to hear but the command in his tone was undeniable and moments later the aide saluted and strode off, his steps light and swift. Schenkendorf turned back to the king, concern pinching his brows. "The evening air is poison, Your Majesty," he said with a careful enunciation.

Frederick lifted his gaze up to him. "Poison?" he repeated with the smallest of smiles. Schenkendorf always had the most poetic ways of expressing his desires without saying them directly, and Frederick always saw right through them. He knew he had to get up and move, to take shelter, but he could not just yet. "Kunersdorf," he said again, staring back down at the dirt. The dirt that they would bury their dead in later. "A page in history. A small page, under two lines, perhaps. Under which Prussia lies buried." Something splintered inside of him to say that, something that sent cracks all the way from his heart to his fingertips. "Dust, Schenkendorf."

No doubt Schenkendorf heard the break in his voice. He glanced urgently around, for once his image of perfect serenity slipping as he listened to his monarch go on and dig himself deeper into his pit of misery. "Does your Majesty wish to stay here?" he asked, his voice only slightly curious tinged with a trace of a challenge. It was an echo of the aide's question on the Muhlberg so long ago.

Except this time the words had their desired effect, as the general hoped they would. Frederick's head snapped up again, eyes narrowing a little. "Do you think I am glued on here?" he demanded, digging his cane into the ground and rising slowly. "To turn into stone? To turn into a monument of my shame?" He rose to his full height and glared up at Schenkendorf, the latter did not flinch and there was even a smile in his eyes as he watched his king return to a small semblance of his normal self. Frederick turned to look behind him, feeling his limbs move sluggishly and painfully. He had sat still for too long and soon they would cramp up. "I have to write, it is the only thing I have left." Yes, to Finkenstein in Berlin and to General Fink, among many others. "Is there a hut somewhere that has some room in it? I promise that I am small enough to not take up too much space." He even managed to dredge up a sardonic smile somewhere from his soul.

Schenkendorf's sigh of relief was audible. "Ah, this way, Your Majesty. I ordered one of my aides to hold it and prevent anyone else from entering."

Frederick frowned as he followed where Schenkendorf was pointing, starting forward on protesting legs. "That was cruel. I will not sit in a hut while an injured soldier is forced to lie in the open air with the threat of rain overhead." He pulled the coat off of his shoulders and offered it to Schenkendorf, who had fallen into step just a little behind him.

The look in his eyes made Schenkendorf take it without protest. "There are many other houses and shelter, Your Majesty. Just this particular one happens to be one of the more noticeable places, so aides and orders may move freely among the army."

Thoughtful as ever. "What of the army do we have left?" Frederick asked even as his heart clenched.

"Three-thousand men, the last I had count of."

"Three-thousand!" Frederick exclaimed, shock breaking through him. He whipped his head around to stare at Schenkendorf, eyes huge. "Schenkendorf, this morning we had nearly sixty-thousand!"

"I know, but those that kept their sense of order and followed Your Majesty here to Rittwein number at about three-thousand. There are countless more still running circles in the forest and no doubt many of them are lost and unsure of where to go."

The words did not help. "The Russians will slaughter them all," Frederick moaned, nodding to the guard that stood next to the hut as he saluted. "All they need to do is sweep the woods and they will pick us all off like wolves."

"They have not done so yet, Your Majesty. There might still be hope."

He could only chuckle in response and give Schenkendorf a nod before he stepped into the hut. The man understood and saluted his king, watching him go and then turning away and vanishing into the night with his aides. Inside the hut was filthy, he did not expect anything less, but the sight of two moaning lieutenants on the floor surprised him. He turned to a man standing just inside the doorway, no doubt the owner of the house. "How long have these men been here?" he asked in German.

The man licked his lips a little. "Hours, Your Majesty, I do not know how many."

Frederick frowned more and knelt at one of the officers' sides, taking the man's hand gently. Warm, warmer than his own, but not hot. There was no fever there. "Alas, my children," he spoke to them, still speaking his German since the lower officers would never know French. "You two are badly wounded, then?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," one of them said although he managed to sit up on one elbow. "But how goes the battle?"

His gut twisted into little knots and he reached for the other man's hand, checking that for fever as well. "Are you bandaged, though? Have you been let blood?" he could not answer them yet and see their hopes crushed in front of him.

The other man groaned, a sound of frustration born of pain. "No, Your Majesty, not a devil of them would bandage us!" he said with a clench of his fist.

If Gilbert had been here then he would have skinned the surgeon alive that refused to treat them. Imagining his nation's face gave him the anger to stand and beckoned to one of his few remaining aides. "Go find a surgeon right away. There's plenty around that can be spared." The lad nodded and ran off.

He reappeared a few minutes later with a surgeon in tow and Frederick was immediately chiding the man, bringing him forward so he could look at the soldiers himself. When the surgeon tried to stammer out an excuse the king laughed. "They were desperate, you say? These are young men! Come here, feel this hand, and that one." He practically pulled the man to his knees along with him and lifted the liuetenants' hands for inspection, ignoring their astonished faces. "See? No fever there. Nature in such cases does wonders." He stood back up, listening to the surgeon mumble affirmations and start to busy himself with treating the men.

Satisfied, Frederick turned to the pile of straw that someone had gotten for him and sat in it, seated in a far corner of the hut that was thankfully angled away from the door. He did not want anyone barging in and disturbing his thoughts now that he could truly be alone with them. While the surgeon worked he picked up his writing desk that one of his aides had brought for him and rolled out a parchment and began writing. It would go to Finkenstein and he could barely remember the words after he wrote them, but he knew that he had put them into some sort of proper order and coherency and that the orders he wrote down were very clear. By the time he finished the surgeon had left and the officers had fallen asleep, both of them breathing deeply and their faces calm, no pain twisting their features. He handed the letter off to an aide with orders to send it with a courier to Count von Finkenstein in Berlin and started to work on his next letter to Fink.

He had barely put his pen to the paper when a chirp interrupted him.

His snapped his head up so quickly that he pulled a muscle in his neck, but the brief flash of pain was nothing compared to the joy that exploded in his chest at the soft fluttering of wings and the fluffy bird that landed on his desk. "Gilbird?" he whispered joyfully, holding out his hand for the chick.

The bird chirped again and hopped right into his palm, fluffing his feathers and staring at Frederick. He could have sworn the bird looked confused and he lifted Gilbird up to check his tiny feet. No letter. His heart sank. Gilbert would have undoubtedly sent him a letter if he woke up. But then why was Gilbird here at all, then? He should be keeping vigil at his master's bedside, as Fritz had seen him do in the past. He brought the bird up to his face. "Where is Gilbert?" he asked, feeling his heart start to race. Something terrible was forming in the corners of his mind that he dared not consider.

A distressed cheep was his answer and Gilbird fluttered to his shoulder, hopping around, then to the straw next to him. When he couldn't find what he was looking for Gilbird took off again to land on one of the officers with an inquisitive warble and a glance at Frederick.

"That's not him," Frederick replied, curling his hands into fists to stop their shaking. Shouldn't Gilbird have known that Gilbert was not there? "He isn't in here at all."

Gilbird chirped louder and flew to him, chirping frantically and flying in circles over his head until he grabbed him and shushed him quietly. One of the officers rolled over in his sleep but nothing happened. Those two black eyes were looking at him in _fear, _Frederick did not care that the owner of those eyes was a bird he knew that emotion when he saw it. It only magnified his own fear and he was shaking again, mouth dry and heart beating so loud it was a wonder the officers were not awoken by it. "You can't find him?" he whispered, barely having the breath to. "And you came to me instead?"

A despondent chirp was his answer and Gilbird flew up, resting in his hat. The same way he rested in Gilbert's hat all the time.

Oh please _no—_

Memory flashed in his mind, unbidden and unwanted, from many years ago. Gilbert laughing and petting Gilbird in his hand while the little chick grasped a letter firmly in its beak. "_He can find anyone in the world," _Gilbert was boasting, "_he's awesome like that. All I have to do is give the person's name or describe them well enough and he'll eventually find them. It doesn't matter where they are in the world, he can do it. And he'll come back to me as well even if I moved, hell, I've woken up from dying before and have seen him right there on my bedside, waiting for me."_

"_What about people he has never met before?" _Frederick had asked, amazement making his voice disbelieving.

"_I just have to describe them. I've written small notes asking for whoever receiving it to write me back and I tell him random things, hair color, height, the eyes, anything I can think of and he'll fly off, be gone for days or weeks, but he returns. I've gotten letters written in every language across Europe, and even some weird script I've never seen before."_

"_Is there anyone he _can't _find?" _Frederick had gasped, wanting to find some sort of fault in the bird's uncanny abilities.

He remembered how Gilbert had pondered that. "_I don't know, really. I never sent him to go find a person sailing at sea, or a dead person for that matter." _He laughed little. "_I wonder if he would just fly around where he remembered the person last being or if he would actually go to their grave. He might be smart enough for it."_

Gilbert had told Gilbird to come back to him after the battle, Frederick had seen it, _so why could he not find him? _Panic unlike anything he had even felt before tore him apart and his chest heaved in broken pants as the very real possibility crashed upon his head like the heavens themselves falling out of the sky. What if Gilbert truly had died for real and Gilbird could not find him because of it?

He came apart completely, with a crack that echoed in his heart and soul and sent the broken pieces of himself flying in all directions, slashing his chest to ribbons. He was amazed that he didn't start screaming from it all and he fell limply back into the straw and rolled onto his side, curling in on himself with his back to the world. The pressure had been building in him all day and now it was all unleashed in a flood that swept him away and now he had no wish to fight it at all. Something hot burned his eyes and trickled out of them and he pressed his hands against them hard, but that did not stop the tears. Deep, ugly sobs rose from his chest, coming from someplace deep inside of his heart that was raw and bleeding, and he kept them quiet with only the greatest difficulty. He could not stop the way his body heaved with each of them, though, trembling all over like a terrified animal.

There was a concerned cheep and he felt cottony soft feathers brushing against his hair and that set him off even more, even Gilbert's pet was worried about him and looking out for him. He cured up into a tight ball, hiding his face in his hands and then in his knees and crying. Broken noises whimpered out of him occasionally, drowned out by the thunder overhead and no one was any wiser to their king's breakdown and his utter despair. Life continued on for the men outside as they picked themselves up and kept moving, telling each other that yes the situation was bad, but there was always some good that could come of it. They just had to keep on believing and their beloved King would guide them through these harsh times. All they had to do was live and report for duty once the storm passed.

Frederick did not think he could do the same.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I bet you all forgot about Gilbird, didn't you? I know I did and when I was trying to figure out how too end the story way back in Part 3 he came back to me and the idea pretty much shattered my heart into a billion pieces. Ah Frederick I hate hurting you like that, I'm sorry ;_;**

**I will admit freely that Schenkendorf and Fritz's conversation is pretty much ripped entirely from the movie _Der Grosse Koenig _which is one of my favorite movies ever and he scene with the both of them in the beginning is one of my favorite parts. There was no way I could resist including it and I only changed the bits of dialogue to fit better with the story and be more historically accurate. And Frederick with the two Lieutenants in the hut also really happened, and him bringing a surgeon for them.**

**And so ends this prompt and man was it fun to write! It was a ride for me as well and I already found a prompt to make a fitting and heartbreaking sequel out of. Next time I'll try to make fluff, though, I promise.**


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